He watched De Medici’s eyes grow narrow and an expression of horror slowly consume his shadowed face. He had removed a sheet of paper from the envelope. The thing lay in his fingers and cast a distorted shadow across the table. There followed a moment of silence.
“Dear God!” the voice of De Medici came softly. He had become rigid. His face had grown into a somber and elongated mask. For the moment he stood motionless, his eyes staring. Terror, blank and wordless, gleamed in the look of his eyes.
Dr. Lytton sprang to his side. De Medici had wavered and stumbled against the table edge. His hand shot out, fingers spread, in a gesture of horror toward the fluttering shadows on the curtains.
“She ... she!” he cried. “From the thing with the dagger....”
The doctor stooped and picked up the paper that had dropped from his hands. Holding it quickly under the rays of the candles he read:
Prince Julien De Medici,
I write to let you know that your meddlesome interest in my affairs is distasteful. You will allow the matter to drop or incur the anger of one who knows how to deal with a De Medici. I am,
Your humble servant, Floria.
Underneath the signature was a crude drawing in ink of a dagger.
“Floria,” muttered Dr. Lytton.
De Medici’s face, gray in the candle-light, was regarding him.
“What was the postmark?” the doctor asked quietly.