CHAPTER IX
THE HIDDEN VOICE
In which a scientist half opens a reluctant door—The strange sleep of Florence Ballau—The broken murmur—“It was ... it was ...”—In which a detective scratches his ear and sighs—In which Julien De Medici puts on his armor.
“May I examine this?” Dr. Lytton asked as the aide walked out of the lieutenant’s office.
“Yes, of course.”
Dr. Lytton and De Medici studied the bit of charred paper.
“The lady of the dagger,” the doctor spoke softly. De Medici nodded, and the lieutenant concealed a growing curiosity behind an official indifference.
“Yes,” continued Dr. Lytton, “the same hand that wrote ‘Floria.’ The script is identical.” He raised his voice. “I presume,” he inquired, “that you’ve established the fact this is Miss Ballau’s handwriting, lieutenant?”
Norton nodded comfortably.
“Yes,” he answered, “we’ve gone into that at some length. We’ve compared it with specimens of Miss Ballau’s normal handwriting. The similarity is obvious. Miss Ballau has two different handwritings. One of them a normal hand. The other—this. Our experts tell me that the writing here is indicative of a high emotional tension, almost fury, and that its resemblance to Miss Ballau’s normal hand is unmistakable. Dr. Greer is of the opinion that it’s the handwriting either of a drug addict or a person suffering from periodic insanity.”
“Exactly,” murmured Dr. Lytton. De Medici raised his eyes suddenly.