“What visitor?” he asked.
“A curious one,” smiled De Medici. “A visitor that has stood beside you laughing in silence at your words, dear Hugo.”
The scientist stared at his friend. De Medici had risen. His face was flushed and his eyes were gleaming.
“The thing unravels itself in my head,” he continued, his voice grown tense. “Yes, dear Hugo, a melodrama. Crude, preposterous, but easily proved. And simple.”
“You mean that you doubt her guilt?” Dr. Lytton snapped.
“That I know who killed Ballau,” De Medici answered. “Yes, not Florence. And not your good friend Julien. And not the phantoms either. But someone else.”
“And you know?”
De Medici nodded. His brows were contracted. When he spoke again it was in a meditative tone.
“The commonplace, Hugo,” he said softly, “how easily one overlooks it. Little questions that a child might ask. For instance, what an awful lot of work it must have been for a single woman to take care of ten rooms alone. One can’t help but feel a curious admiration for the diligence and energy of Jane, the housekeeper. Wait a minute!”
He pointed his finger commandingly at the scientist.