Framed in the doorway stood the pale, silent figure of Florence Ballau. De Medici sprang to his feet.
“Florence!” he cried.
She regarded him with an intent smile. He seized her hand and his eyes searched her face. An inscrutable pallor, a defiant and guarded gleam, these he observed instantly. But behind the unyielding pride of the young woman he perceived a confusion.
“Not fear, not fear,” repeated itself swiftly in his thought. “Then she is innocent. It’s something else. Grief, apprehension....”
He murmured her name again.
“Florence, do you forgive me for the thing I said in the theater?”
Her head moved imperceptibly.
“Yes.”
The dulled voice echoed miserably in his ears. Pity and love overcame his tongue. He continued to look at her in silence.
“Suffering ... suffering,” whispered itself in his thought. He noted that she had turned her eyes to the detective. A bustling little matron in white stood behind her.