They had been sitting for fifteen minutes in silence. De Medici finally spoke. He had grown nervous and catlike, his eyes furtively caressing the curtains of the room, his ears strained for sounds. “She should be here now,” he said. “It’s only fifteen minutes’ walk.” Dr. Lytton grunted and said nothing. A savage light was in his eyes. “Are you sure Florence will sleep?” De Medici pursued. The doctor disdained answering. “Perhaps it’s been unfair of me,” De Medici smiled tiredly, “but I’ve been holding something from you. A woman entered my bedroom last night just about the time you captured your Floria in Rollo—and tried to kill me. She caught me in the arm with a dagger. I fainted, and when I awoke I found a crucifix on my chest and a candle burning at my head.” The scientist’s eyes widened. He nodded as if weighing this evidence and then remarked curtly: “I can only say, Julien, that you’ve gone mad. You’ve been the victim of hallucinations. The Floria image has been in your mind so long and so vividly that it finally materialized into an optical illusion.” “There was a wound—and blood,” muttered De Medici. “A self-inflicted attack,” Dr. Lytton answered curtly. “How long are you going to wait for this visitor of yours?” De Medici had given instructions to his man, Harding, to admit any caller without hesitation. Listening to the doctor, he stiffened. He had heard an outer door open. “Sh-h,” he murmured. There was a long pause. Dr. Lytton followed the fixed gaze of his friend, and both men sat watching the door that opened into the curtained room. Slowly De Medici rose. The door was opening. A tall, burning-eyed creature in a preposterous dress that dropped a silken train behind her stood on the threshold. Dr. Lytton had moved excitedly. “Quiet!” De Medici whispered, seizing his arm. “Here is Floria.” The woman was advancing slowly into the room. It was Jane, the housekeeper, in a masquerade. Her eyes were alive with mania. The hollow cheeks were crazily rouged. The awkward body and the skinny hands had become curiously graceful. Behind the crazed make-believe of the creature loomed a startling personality. Pride, terror and strength mingled in the flashing, charcoaled eyes. She continued to move gracefully toward the two men. In the center of the room she paused. Looking about her, she spoke in a vibrant, throaty voice that shot a thrill through her two intent listeners. “I conjure you,” she cried, “save him. I have come to you with my heart in my hand.” Her eyes slowly focused upon De Medici. He was standing in front of her, regarding her with a puzzled attentiveness. “You will save him, Baron. You must. You alone can do that. See how I have humbled myself and come to you.” De Medici’s face lighted. He became suddenly alive. “Quick, doctor. In the kitchen,” he whispered. “Bring some plates and a bottle. Put them on the table here.”