“I grow calm before murder,” he went on thinking swiftly. “Something grows calm inside me.”
His fingers reached slowly toward the dagger hilt.
“De Medici ... De Medici,” he murmured half aloud, and sprang to his feet. His face had become white. His eyes burned as if with fever.
Florence and Jane, the housekeeper, were standing dumbly in the doorway. De Medici stared at them.
“Who did it?” he asked.
Florence shook her head and wept. Her hands were on her cheeks and the look of horror he had noticed as she stumbled out of the elevator had returned. He moved quickly to her side and placed an arm around her shoulders.
“The police will be here in a minute,” he said. “What happened?”
She answered still in tears, her eyes centered.
“I don’t know. I came home early. I had a headache. Jane let me in.”
Her weeping overcame her.