“And the note from Rollo, Maine, signed by the lady of the dagger while Florence was in New York in jail?” inquired De Medici. “We will find out that she gave it to someone to mail,” smiled the doctor. “A part of the crude cunning which characterizes her Floria nature.” “And my visitor last night?” murmured De Medici. Dr. Lytton looked at him. “What visitor?” he asked. “A curious one,” smiled De Medici. “A visitor that has stood beside you laughing in silence at your words, dear Hugo.” The scientist stared at his friend. De Medici had risen. His face was flushed and his eyes were gleaming. “The thing unravels itself in my head,” he continued, his voice grown tense. “Yes, dear Hugo, a melodrama. Crude, preposterous, but easily proved. And simple.” “You mean that you doubt her guilt?” Dr. Lytton snapped. “That I know who killed Ballau,” De Medici answered. “Yes, not Florence. And not your good friend Julien. And not the phantoms either. But someone else.” “And you know?” De Medici nodded. His brows were contracted. When he spoke again it was in a meditative tone. “The commonplace, Hugo,” he said softly, “how easily one overlooks it. Little questions that a child might ask. For instance, what an awful lot of work it must have been for a single woman to take care of ten rooms alone. One can’t help but feel a curious admiration for the diligence and energy of Jane, the housekeeper. Wait a minute!” He pointed his finger commandingly at the scientist. “Sit still. I want to show you a little drama I have written while you talked.” De Medici moved swiftly to the telephone. “Park View 0146,” he spoke into the mouthpiece. Dr. Lytton glared at him. “Mad,” whispered the scientist. De Medici smiled. “Hello!” he exclaimed suddenly into the telephone. “Who is this?” A pause and he continued: “Jane, this is Mr. De Medici calling. Miss Ballau is very ill at my apartment. We have the doctor here. She is dying. She told me to telephone you at once. She says she must see you, that you must come over at once.” De Medici listened. No sound came from the other end of the wire. And then a scream drifted out of the receiver. “Do you understand?” he shouted. “Come over at once.” He waited a few moments for a sound. But the receiver remained silent against his ear. “She’s gone,” he murmured. He hung up and turned to the doctor. “I am at the present moment unable to decide, Hugo, which of you is entitled to the credit of being the world’s greatest blundering idiot, you or Lieutenant Norton. But possibly it may turn out to be I. So we’ll wait.” He seated himself calmly and, his face grown imperturbable, lighted a cigarette and stared at the indignant scientist. CHAPTER XIV ACT II The burning-eyed visitor—An old favorite—Amateur theatricals—“Light the candles!”—In which Julien De Medici reveals himself as an effective playwright.