The soft voice of De Medici came out of the shadows. His choler growing, the doctor continued:
“Why don’t you try crystal-gazing? Sitting in a room like this, candlesticks, darkness, drapes, and bombarding yourself with the fancy that you’re someone else! What do you expect? Something is bound to happen if you keep it up long enough.”
“I am satisfied.”
The soft calm of De Medici’s voice seemed to infuriate his friend.
“And you claim to be in love with Florence,” he cried. “Yet you haven’t made a move to help her. They’ll close in on her any day now. We’ve got to do something. Come now, I want to talk to you. Do you think her innocent?”
“I prefer her guilty,” De Medici whispered.
“Hm,” the scientist grunted. He sat stroking his heavy face. “Monomania,” he muttered as if to himself. He raised his voice. “What form do these idiotic delusions of yours take?”
Glaring into the shadows he waited for De Medici’s words. They came languidly out of the darkness—
“Neither delusion nor idiocy, Hugo. She unquestionably murdered her father. And I find the situation to my liking.”
Dr. Lytton was on his feet. He walked swiftly to the side of De Medici and seized his shoulder.