A. “Yes.”
Q. “Have you any theory as to how your father met his death?”
A. “I think ... he killed himself.”
“That will be all, Miss Ballau,” the coroner announced.
She arose and steadied herself for a moment with her fingers on the edge of the table. The eyes of De Medici remained on her. She walked slowly back to the chair beside him. The coroner and Lieutenant Norton were conferring.
“Inconceivable imbeciles,” De Medici’s musing began again. “They let her go. They had only to confront her with the telephone call. Cort must have told them, as he told me. And her flight from the theater. Either they have neither eyes nor intelligence ... or they wait. Ah, he looks at me. Next ... yes, they will ask me questions now. There was blood on my hands when the detective came in. I must remember to explain about that. Hm, they keep whispering. They know something. About whom?”
His eyes turned slowly toward Florence. He would speak to her. Had she forgotten that he loved her, that his heart was at her feet? Yes, she was cold. Even in the cab.... She had spoken calmly, almost indifferently, during their ride. But her arms had come around him. A kiss—a long, burning kiss.
A shudder of delight confused the memory. He heard his name called. He stood up and walked to the chair, his brain clear again. He was calm.
“I must be careful,” his thought continued as he approached the table. “They are waiting with something ... I must not corroborate the suicide. They know better. It’s part of a plan ... against her.”
He bowed stiffly to the coroner and sat down. He leaned back in the chair, his hands folded in his lap, and answered the opening questions with precision. Having established his identity and his connection with the Ballau family, the coroner proceeded.