“Floria and not Francesca,” he mused. “Floria of the dagger. Then the hallucination was not entirely unreal. He said something ... what was it? A similar image in his brain.”
His heart sickened as the realization grew. Guilty! Yet a few moments ago a conviction had overpowered him—a certainty that he was toying with chimeras, that no truth or substance lay in his evil obsessions. But now the letter ... and the postmark....
“A similarity,” Dr. Lytton finally announced. “The letter from Rollo, Maine, could have been written by the same hand that wrote this letter to you. Yet they are not identical. There are several vital differences, although a layman, on cursory examination, would call them of no consequence. Yes, the difference is a difference of tempo. Floria, the lady of the dagger, writes with a certain jerky stiffiness. The characters show high nervous tension, excitement, hysteria. An exaggeration of her natural chirography. Look, the lines are uneven. The letters jumble in spots. The thing resembles the slow, painful scrawl of a child. Yet it was written in fierce haste.... Hysteria.”
De Medici nodded. His eyes avoided the thing under the doctor’s hands.
“I perceived it from the beginning,” the scientist continued. “Everything pointed to it. A dual personality....”
“Florence and Floria,” murmured De Medici.
Dr. Lytton’s manner had become elate. A professional singsong was in his voice. He was off on a favorite topic once more. His heavy face glistened with enthusiasm. The underworlds of the soul ... the absorbing novelties of manias ... these were his scientific specialties.
“I expected one of two things out of my visit,” he announced. “I knew what sort of creature had killed Ballau.... It had left its marks in every detail. An amazing murder.... A slow, painful, and yet fiercely executed crime. Like the handwriting on this letter paper. The eerie footprints of hysteria. They were all over the deed. A soul writhing in the depths of a crazed sleep.”
“He is quoting from his paper on somnambulism,” mused De Medici. His eyes remained on the doctor’s face. Lytton had settled back in his chair. His wrathful and nervous manner had given way to a pedagogic air. Yet as he talked his eyes peered through the lowered lashes at the immobile figure of De Medici.
“The dual personality was obvious, Julien. But, ah, whose? And the obvious answer was—yours. The dagger—a relic of De Medici evil. The blood-stained hands. I learned this from Norton. Florence’s confusion. Her concealed evidence. To protect you, of course. I talked to her after you had taken her to the theater. You remember, the inquest morning?”