“And are you aware of its unreality at the moment?” Dr. Lytton asked quietly.
“Alas, yes! I watch from a distance. I repeat to myself—‘a hallucination.’ But even then there is something truthful about her. Even though I know I dream the image, it appears to me as psychologically true. The woman with the dagger is Florence....”
De Medici moved slowly down the room. As he stood against the darkened curtains, his face glowed uncertainly toward the doctor.
“We must save her,” he whispered.
Dr. Lytton grunted.
“Yes,” he agreed, “if you can keep your head clear of these obsessions of yours. Yet——” He paused and stared at De Medici. “Curious,” he resumed. “It fits in. That vision of yours. Yes, an odd psychological phenomenon. I have had a similar image in my mind for a week.”
De Medici’s voice had undergone a change when he spoke again. It was crisp and with a precision in its sound.
“Now tell me, Hugo,” he asked, “what you’ve found.”
“First,” countered the doctor, “what are you hiding? Your consciousness of her guilt is not as pathologic as you would make out. The telephone call and all the rest are good enough. But you were there that night. The first to see her. You saw something ... found something.”
De Medici nodded as the doctor’s eyes glittered at him. Moving to the table he opened a drawer and removed the purse he had picked up in the Ballau library.