“Ah, Jerome,” she said, trembling passionately. “Ah, I feel above humanity to-night!” He looked at her, his melancholy eyes a little wide with wonder. “Tell me—” he asked. Blushing, breathing fast, she drew back with low laughter. “Ah—not yet—I must tell Perseus first.” “I, too, have somewhat to tell Perseus,” said Jerome Caryl; he went to the door and called to the servant. “Is Mr. Wedderburn here?” “Yes,” came the answer. “He is, sir, in the back parlor with Sir Perseus—” Jerome Caryl returned to the table. “I have been detained,” he said. “Berwick had heard from Argyll—a letter in bad cipher—it hinted that the government knew something.” Delia would not be disturbed by this to-night—not to-night. Misfortune or the hint of misfortune was unbelievable to-night. “My Lord Argyll is over fearful,” she said, with smiling eyes. Jerome Caryl looked at her curiously; he had never seen her thus: gloriously smiling, triumphantly glowing with joyous high spirits; she was beautiful to-night with the beauty of great happiness; she caught his glance and laughed and blushed; her hand upon the door. “Perseus will be a-rating us both for this lateness,” she said, her bosom heaving as if she had been swiftly running. She opened the door and stepped lightly over the threshold, then paused, still smiling, but a little wondering. The window opposite was set wide open; of the two candles on the table one had been blown out by the rising wind, the other had guttered and the wax dripped forlornly down the stick onto the table; the fire had fallen to a few smoldering embers. “There is no one here,” said Delia marveling. Yet the room did not seem empty; she felt that there was some one there, and peered forward into the shadows. “Perseus!” she cried. As she advanced she noticed the ashes and charred scraps of paper lying about the hearth: she stopped abruptly. “Perseus!” she said again, but her voice was less confident and her smile had faded; she looked at the table where she had left her brother writing; there were his inkstand, his pen, wine and glasses on a tray; his chair pushed back and another one knocked over; over this hung a man’s riding-cloak—and not her brother’s— Whose—then—whose? She picked up the flaring candle and held it over the fallen chair. Mr. Wedderburn’s cloak—she had seen him in it an hour ago. She turned across the room, the candle shook and dripped in her hand. “Jerome!” she said faintly, “Jerome!” He was in the doorway. “Where are they?” he asked swiftly. She was nearing the window; the candle cast a ragged light through the shadows. “Jerome—” she whispered fast and fearfully. “Come here—there is something here—” Backing against the wall she stared down at the window-seat. “God!” she shrieked suddenly. “It is a man!” The candle clattered from her slack fingers to the floor; the room was in complete darkness. Delia turned wildly through the blackness and caught Jerome Caryl’s arm.