“I have an obsession in favor of cabs,” he smiled. “I’ve always done most of my thinking in cabs, and most of my business has been transacted in them. I fancy it’s because rooms always used to depress and frighten me.”
He gave directions to the chauffeur.
“We’ll go to my place,” he resumed. “And on the way I’ll tell you about my end of the mystery.”
As the cab turned back De Medici began his story, confessing for the first time aloud the strange suspicions that had seized him as he bent over the body of his friend Ballau.
“I was convinced at the moment,” he explained, “that, in a fit of mental aberration during which I took on some of the characteristics of my ancestors, I killed poor Victor. And the more I thought of that, the more guilty I seemed to feel.”
He continued relating the fears that had haunted him, the hallucinations that had accused him during the ensuing weeks. Florence listened quietly, her large eyes regarding him with emotion.
“I love you so,” she murmured, “and I knew there was something like this. And I tried to utilize it to save her. It was never clear in my mind just what I was doing ... or just how it {could work. I must have been acting on} impulse, determined that whatever happened, she would be spared. But it’s better this way, I’m sure.”
They left the cab and entered De Medici’s apartment.
“I’ll like living here,” she smiled as they sat down in the room of the curtains. “Providing, of course, the ghost of Francesca is forever laid.”
“Forever,” he answered.