“Go on,” he said. “What has happened?”
Dr. Lytton had seated himself and lighted a cigar.
“Well,” he smiled, “I can tell you the story now. We have to deal, as I surmised from the first, with a most fascinating case of dissociation, commonly called dual personality.”
De Medici smiled. Then it was Florence, and the doctor had proved her guilt. Obtained a confession, his telegram had announced. The man, for all his cleverness, was an ass. He had managed to bungle everything as idiotically as had Norton. But as he stood, aware that he was sneering at his friend, a new twist entered his thought.
As the doctor started talking, the idea had flashed through De Medici’s mind.... “Quite right. Florence. It might have been she. And the creature with the dagger last night might have been I. Innocent of Ballau’s murder, constant fear of my possible guilt may have resulted in the creation of the dagger phantom as an alibi—an unnecessary alibi.”
Dr. Lytton, supremely satisfied with himself and oblivious to the changes of expression in his friend’s manner, was proceeding in the professorial manner he assumed when expounding indisputable truths and unalterable facts.
“I want to point out to you first,” he announced, “the fact that the obvious, although frequently open to doubt, is nevertheless not to be dismissed. It is a common fallacy of people engaged in the solution of mysteries or more scientific problems to flout the obvious and to search for the secret in things hidden from the cursory eye. It was this fact which led us somewhat astray for a while.”
“I am in no mood for a Freshman lecture on psychology,” De Medici interrupted calmly.
“I’ll tell the thing in my own way,” Dr. Lytton smiled.
“Very well.” De Medici shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll listen to what is pertinent and ignore the rest.”