The voice behind him answered: “Yes, forever.” Dr. Lytton was watching narrowly. He saw the metamorphosed housekeeper stealthily approaching the apparently unconscious De Medici. With infinite caution her fingers reached for the knife on the table edge. She held it behind her as De Medici raised a wineglass in his hand. “Ah, my lovely one, my beautiful Tosca, at last thou art mine.” As he spoke the woman appeared to become transfigured. The terror of her eyes gave way to an exultant light. She stood poised for a moment, gazing at the man straightening with the wineglass in his hand. Then with a cry she raised the knife and plunged it toward De Medici. He had been waiting, his body tensed for the moment. His hand caught the descending arm and frustrated the attack. But immediately he sank to the floor, crying hoarsely: “Help me, help me, I am dying.” Dr. Lytton, who had followed the grewsome pantomime, stood motionless against the curtains. The woman approached the figure spread on the floor and remained looking down into the face of the man she had slain. Then, without removing her eyes from him, she went through the motions of washing her fingers in one of the water glasses. She stopped, and her gaze centered on the two lighted candles. A shudder passed through her. De Medici, warily alert, watched her lift the two candlesticks from the table and lean over him. For a moment the face of the madwoman breathed against him as the candlesticks were placed one at each side of his head. She had kneeled. Tearing the crucifix that hung from her neck, she laid it upon his chest and then arose. Actress and murderess had become merged in her eyes. She glanced wildly about the darkened and shadow-dancing room and then, with a last look at the figure on the floor, moved toward the door. She walked like one in a dreadful dream, her body moving as if impelled by a force. De Medici, still motionless, waited till she had retreated several steps. Raising himself, he whispered quickly: “Don’t let her get away, Hugo.” But the woman had paused before Dr. Lytton could move. Her figure grew larger in the shadows. Her gaze had torn itself from the one on the floor. She was staring straight ahead of her. Standing in the doorway blocking her path was Florence Ballau. The girl’s hair was down and a drowsy look was over her eyes. She stood regarding the woman in the trailing gown and then, raising her arms, stumbled forward with the cry: “Mother ... mother.... Oh, my God!” CHAPTER XV HEARTS AND FLOWERS In which Florence takes up the drama—A taxicab, as in the beginning—In which what is left of the reader’s suspense and curiosity is carefully removed. The cab bowled slowly along through the circuitous park roads. “I’ll tell him to take his time,” De Medici whispered. “The air will do you good.” He looked at the girl beside him. Tenderness lighted his face.