“These might be they;” he said, looking up and across at the dead man. “Now what would I not give for one word from you—one word, yes—or no—” Delia gave no hint; she stepped forward suddenly and faced Jerome. “Tell me,” she asked. “What did you say just now? What was that paper—show it to me.” Her voice sank to an intense appeal. “Ah—show it to me,” she cried hoarsely. He looked at her in a quick pity. “Forgive me—I have been blunt—poor soul, ’tis terrible for you,” he said gently. She took no notice of his words; with the same set face she came closer and caught hold of his sleeve. “What was it?” she said in a frozen voice. “Some lie rang in my head—something too horrible—Jerome—what have I ever done that you should so torture me—will you not tell me?” So strange was her voice, so disconnected and yet intensely earnest were her words, that Caryl feared for her reason. “Delia,” he said pityingly. “I would do anything to comfort thee—yet I can give thee no hope—he is dead.” “Yes!” she cried frantically. “But who killed him?” “This man—this devilish villain—the Master of Stair—” “The Master of Stair!” she echoed, clinging to him desperately. “What has he to do with us; we do not know him—I have never seen him—” “Nay—he called himself Andrew Wedderburn—” “No—no,” she whispered thickly, “that is not true, and you shall say so. My God! It is not true. I am mad and all the world is chaos if that is true—” “I know it as if I had seen him do it,” he answered. “What did your brother say—the Master of Stair!” “No! no! he did not!” shrieked Delia. “Did they not tell us he was in this room with Perseus—did he not quit by the window in such haste that he left his cloak—there at your feet?” His cloak! His cloak that she had clutched to her heart for comfort—this to be cited at evidence against him— “I say it could not be!” she cried; she put her hands before her face as if fire had suddenly struck her blind and cowered and shrank together. Gently Jerome Caryl put her into the chair by the desolate hearth. “We must leave here at once,” he said. “I must send a warning to Berwick and destroy the printing-press and all papers—there is a kingdom hanging on our prudence now.” She looked at him blankly. “The Master of Stair,” she muttered. “The Master of Stair.” She drew herself together in the chair and, half-swooning, dreams mounted to her brain; reality ebbed away; she was conscious of feeling cold and yet when she put her hand to her forehead she seemed to touch fire; she thought the Abbey was about her, the sunlight at her feet, and—he—stood on the bishop’s grave—“call me John,” he said—Sir John Dalrymple, Master of Stair—she repeated the names to herself—it was written in large characters: “Mr. Wedderburn is the Master of Stair”—how they lied! Where was Jerome Caryl? There were people passing, carrying something—it was the Abbey and a funeral—she was so happy that she could weep for them—death was curious—irrevocable—irrevocable.