Night covered the streets. De Medici’s expressionless face nodded an attentive punctuation to the talk of the pathologist as they left the police station behind.
“Two and two,” Dr. Lytton was saying exuberantly. “The thing evolves into an ABC of logic. Poor child, poor child. You guessed it, too, eh, Julien? Well, it was easy. Anybody but a policeman would have seen it. But what acting! What consummate acting! The voice, the centered eyes, the collapse! A wonderful woman, Julien.”
“Why did she do it?” De Medici asked.
“Why? Hm—to beat us at our own game,” Dr. Lytton laughed. “To confuse us, bewilder us, give us no trail at all where there had been the beginning of a trail. Her hesitation over the name Floria. Her inward struggle. Ha, what a complicated fool she must take me for! But, thank God, it happened. For the thing now suddenly comes into the domain of logic. Yes, we’ve done everything but think. Simplicity is always the soul of mystery. For instance, it was obvious to me five minutes after Miss Ballau entered the room that she was as normal and straightforward a nature as any I have ever seen. There is not a hint of the neurotic about her. Healthy, keen, vivacious and an actress. Good Lord, what an actress! The mock trance she went into was superb.”
“You’re convinced it was pretense?” De Medici asked.
“Absolutely,” Dr. Lytton answered. “And now we’ll begin with the first letters of the alphabet. Simplicity, dear Julien. Elementals that we’ve overlooked. First and finally, Florence Ballau and Floria are not one and the same. The handwriting ... bosh! The similarity is too strained. The Floria notes were not written by Florence Ballau. Yes, I stake my life on it, Floria and Florence are two different persons.”
“Ah,” murmured De Medici.
“You may sneer,” Dr. Lytton cried, “but wait. We’ll drop in at your rooms for a while. I’ve almost made up my mind to something.”
They walked in silence to De Medici’s home. Once more the two men seated themselves in the room of the wine-colored velvets. De Medici had inserted fresh candles in the holders.
“Now we can discuss our little lesson,” Dr. Lytton smiled. “You may interrupt anywhere and any time you wish, Julien. First we have this fact. Let’s look at it. The arrest of Miss Ballau in New York City yesterday morning established the probability that Miss Ballau was not in Rollo, Maine, yesterday morning. This makes it evident that Florence Ballau didn’t mail you the theatrical little note you received a few hours ago from Rollo, Maine. There’s the stupid theory she might have left it for someone else to mail after she’d come on to New York. Bosh! Involving a confederate, which is one thing against it. But ... let us remain simple and look at things easily. Florence Ballau goes to Rollo, Maine. And after twenty-four hours she returns to New York. And after another twenty-four hours she returns to her apartment and is arrested trying to destroy a letter. A letter signed ‘Floria’ and written by the same hand that sent you your warning, Julien. Do you follow me?”