“There’s really nothing to worry about any more, Florence. Your mother will have excellent care where she is. Dr. Lytton wrote me that he’s taken personal charge of the case and that she’s as happy as anyone could expect.” Florence nodded. Her hand took his. “You’ve been wonderful,” she said. “And more than anything else, I admire your reticence. It’s a week—and you haven’t asked me any questions yet.” “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “And rejoicing in my own way. There’s no hurry for the epilogue. And anyway ... I prefer this.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “I’d like to go somewhere and talk,” she said at length. “The cab’s a bit inconvenient. And I’m tired.” De Medici yielded the point with a minor protest. “I have an obsession in favor of cabs,” he smiled. “I’ve always done most of my thinking in cabs, and most of my business has been transacted in them. I fancy it’s because rooms always used to depress and frighten me.” He gave directions to the chauffeur. “We’ll go to my place,” he resumed. “And on the way I’ll tell you about my end of the mystery.” As the cab turned back De Medici began his story, confessing for the first time aloud the strange suspicions that had seized him as he bent over the body of his friend Ballau. “I was convinced at the moment,” he explained, “that, in a fit of mental aberration during which I took on some of the characteristics of my ancestors, I killed poor Victor. And the more I thought of that, the more guilty I seemed to feel.” He continued relating the fears that had haunted him, the hallucinations that had accused him during the ensuing weeks. Florence listened quietly, her large eyes regarding him with emotion. “I love you so,” she murmured, “and I knew there was something like this. And I tried to utilize it to save her. It was never clear in my mind just what I was doing ... or just how it {could work. I must have been acting on} impulse, determined that whatever happened, she would be spared. But it’s better this way, I’m sure.” They left the cab and entered De Medici’s apartment. “I’ll like living here,” she smiled as they sat down in the room of the curtains. “Providing, of course, the ghost of Francesca is forever laid.” “Forever,” he answered. She studied him in silence. “Yes”—at length—“there is a change. Something seems absent from your face. A nervousness. As if....” “As if,” he supplied, “the phantoms of De Medici had said good-bye.” “As if you loved me in a simpler way,” she corrected. “But I’ll tell you what’s left now. If you wish to hear.” “Some tea?” he asked. He gave instructions to his man. Ten minutes later they were sitting happily over their emptied cups.