The secret dread he had carried locked in his brain since the finding of Ballau’s body vanished in a laugh. He sat, his head buzzing, his eyes gleaming with happiness. He was free. The thing he had carried in him, that had gnawed sickeningly at the back of his thought, was removed. He had not killed Ballau. No murderer lurked within him. He laughed again at the naïveté of his logic.
“For if it was I who murdered poor Ballau, it was not I who came into this room last night and tried to murder Julien De Medici. And since those two figures are one and the same, selah! I am innocent. What a sick, mad suspicion it was!”
He shuddered at the memory of the secret that had lived like a specter in his soul since the night of the tragedy. An illusionary secret! For here he lay the victim of an attack identical to the one that had ended Ballau. The candlestick, the crucifix, the dagger thrust.
Harding, the bland-faced valet, appeared in answer to his ring. He stood regarding his master in astonishment.
“Your arm, sir....”
His mouth remained open and speechless as he noted the disheveled hair and pallor of De Medici.
“Yes, my arm,” De Medici smiled. “Fix it up. A cut. Get some hot water and bathe it.... And, by the way, Harding, did you hear anybody come in last night?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, somebody got into the room last night and tried to knife me.”
“I heard nobody,” Harding answered.