De Medici nodded again.
“I remember something,” he said slowly.
“I thought you would,” smiled Dr. Lytton.
“I had called at her apartment unexpectedly. It was last year. I rang the bell a half dozen times before anyone answered. Finally the door was opened by Florence. I hardly recognized her. She stood before me white-faced and eyes staring. I had a feeling for the moment that something terrible had happened, was happening. I tried to pass it over—such things always confuse me violently—by inviting myself in for a cup of tea. She stood looking at me almost as if she failed to recognize me. Then she said, ‘Father isn’t home,’ and closed the door in my face.”
“Excellent,” murmured the doctor. “The perfect corroboration. And did you ever ask her what had been wrong?”
“She called me up,” De Medici answered, “the next morning, and apologized for the incident. She said she suffered from periodic headaches the pain of which almost drove her beside herself. I had come on her during one of the spells.”
“Did she use the word ‘spells’?” Dr. Lytton asked.
“I think she did,” De Medici answered.
The two men became silent. The candles had burned down. One of them sputtered excitedly for a moment and then faded out. De Medici’s eyes watched the growing flicker of the three lights. Darkness would come.... His heart chilled. Florence, crazed and standing dagger in hand before her father.... Victor Ballau staring aghast at the horrible-eyed woman who wore the body of his daughter but in whose soul leaped the awful desires of a demoniacal stranger ... the lady of the dagger.
“Nothing is explained,” he mused as the second candle drifted away. The darkness stepped closer to the two men. “The beard ... the thing he clutched....”