Dr. Lytton, his previous indignation vanished, slipped from the room. A vague and exciting understanding had come to him. De Medici cleared the table hastily and lighted the candlesticks. As he did, his fingers snapped the electric switch and the room dropped into a yellow shadowed darkness. Dr. Lytton returned with his arms loaded. [Illustration: {uncaptioned}] “Set the table as if for a meal,” murmured De Medici, his eyes holding the stare of the woman, “and bring a knife. A long knife.” The woman, oblivious to these maneuvers, had begun to talk once more. “Name your price, then, Baron,” she intoned. “Hurry,” De Medici whispered to the scientist, “and leave the rest to me. I’ll take the part. I know it well.” He turned to the woman, his figure become polite, leering, his hand extended. “Ah, Lady Floria,” he smiled at her, “venal my enemies call me. But remember, I do not sell myself for money. If I must betray my honor”—he paused to laugh—“I insist upon choosing my payment.” He advanced toward the woman, his manner becoming unctuous and caressing. “You have scorned and braved me, Lady Floria,” he spoke, “yet your beauty has kept me enslaved. I’ve watched you clinging to your lover like an amorous tigress and I vowed that you would be mine some day.” He paused and waited. The woman’s eyes had taken fire. Her head flung itself back in a superb gesture. Her voice came throatily and distinctly. “No. I would rather kill myself.” For an instant De Medici beamed with delight. Then again the unctuous, leering manner returned. “You forget,” he cried, “you forget I hold your Mario’s life in pawn for yours, Tosca.” She nodded regally. “And do you think, Baron Scarpia, that I would contract so hideous a payment with you?” De Medici, in search of his lines for a moment, hesitated and then cried out: “How you detest me!” The Tosca facing him laughed. “I do,” she answered, “with my soul and body I loathe you.” “Ah, ’tis thus I love you most,” he spoke. Dr. Lytton, eyeing the incredible make-believe for a moment, had become busy. The drift of the strange scene had penetrated his thought. His hands had cleared the table and arranged the plates and bottles brought from the kitchen. Carefully he laid the knife on the edge nearest the woman. De Medici, seizing the swing of the lines he had evidently once known, fired the antiquated Sardou speech at the woman, remembering and improvising as he went. “Spolletta, pay attention.” He was addressing imaginary actors. “I have changed my mind. The lovely Floria and I have made a bargain. Let Cavaradossi be shot. Here is the order.” Turning to the table he scribbled with a pencil on a piece of paper. “Here, Floria,” he said, “the passport. I have fulfilled my promise.” “Not entirely,” came the voice behind him. “I must have a safe conduct enabling me, too, to quit the country. For I go with him.” “After tonight?” De Medici murmured, “you will leave me?”