“Who is it?” she cried. “Whom do you think it can be? Nay, answer me—could it be—he? Ah, no, my God—it is not possible—” “Hush! hush!” said Jerome gently. “I must get a light.” “No, no, I could not bear to look,” she shuddered wildly. “I will not bear it—why should you ask me to? It was his cloak—” Jerome tenderly disengaged her hand. “Take courage,” he said. “If it should be Perseus he may not be—he may be—living.” She let him go; her hands fell to her sides. “Perseus,” she echoed vaguely. “Do you think it might be Perseus?” She turned and crept along the wall; falling to her knees, she put her hands out through the dark, feeling blindly for what she knew was there. “Andrew, Andrew,” she said crazily—“Ah!” She drew back, for she had touched something—something soft—velvet—a velvet sleeve—she pressed her face against the wall, her hands over it, and her fallen hair, and when Jerome reëntered with a lantern she did not look up. He crossed at once to the window, holding the light; it revealed her crouching away with hidden face and close beside her Sir Perseus, full on his back, his hands clutched in his disordered clothes, as if his last act had been the defense of something he had hidden in his breast. “Now here is an end of thy work,” said Jerome quietly. He set the lantern on the window-seat and sinking on his knees, lifted Sir Perseus someway from the floor. “Delia—bring me the wine,” he said. “I think he still breathes—” She slowly turned a wild face. “So—it is Perseus—” she said, staring. “Bring the wine—” said Jerome Caryl. Mechanically and heavily, she obeyed him; poured it out and handed it. “So it is Perseus,” she repeated. “I think we are betrayed,” said Jerome Caryl evenly. “Now, who was it?” He laid his hand over the heart of the wounded man; then forced some wine between his lips. “Dead?” asked Delia. “Is he dead—dead?” “Hush!” whispered Jerome Caryl; for the man in his arms had stirred; he bent his head to catch some whisper. Sir Perseus moved. “Who was it?” asked Jerome Caryl. “And the papers?” Bending close he caught a few struggling breaths. “I did my—best—I did—” Then with the effort of speaking, the blood rushed to the man’s mouth, choking him, his staring eyes fixed in an agony on the calm face bending over him. “The Master of Stair,” he gasped, with a ghastly effort and, rolling over, sank out of Jerome Caryl’s arms. “What does he mean?” sobbed Delia. “Has he been murdered? What has happened—is he dead?” Jerome Caryl looked up at her. “Yes,” he said briefly, “and the man who slew him has those papers.”