Delia reeled forward into the room and sat down heavily at the table, her face blank, her fingers at her mouth; there was everything on the table as it had been; the familiar things of common use about the room—what had happened that it was all so strange? Nothing—what could happen? It seemed as if her heart had stopped; all she felt was a little tired wonder. She was roused by a light touch on her arm, and looked up dully into Jerome Caryl’s face. He lifted her hand from the table. “For his sake,” he said very softly, “Call up your courage now—” She stared with an unchanged look. “Is he dead?” she said. “Perseus?” “God help thee,” he answered, and his voice broke a little. “We are all undone—” “But—Perseus?” she repeated. “Is he dead? Can’t he see me? Won’t he hear me when I tell him—why—what was I going to tell him? When I came home I sang for joy, oh, my love, my love!” She dropped her head, sobbing heavily. “Come and comfort me,” she cried between her bitter tears. “I only want you—ah, I would have told him—dead—what is it to be dead?” She looked up. Jerome Caryl had left her; she rose and crept slowly to where her brother lay with Jerome’s handkerchief across his face. “Perseus—” she sobbed, “I was so happy—dear—I wanted to make you happy, too—he loves me! Perseus—do you hear?” She bent lower. “Will you never know now?” she asked fearfully. “But he shall avenge you—he loves me! Oh, Perseus, cannot the wonder of it make you rise and speak to me?” A moment she listened with stilled breath, then slowly she shrank back from the still and stiffened figure on the floor. “Andrew—” she whispered pitifully, then her gaze fell on his cloak and she caught it up to her breast for comfort. Suddenly Jerome Caryl entered; a little paper showed in his hand; his face was strongly moved. “It is explained!” he cried passionately, “that damned devil has undone us utterly—see what has come from the man Hunt—in prison in Romney—he contrived to send this. Look at it—fated fools we are!” He held out to her a soiled scrap of crumpled paper; her wild eyes fell to it and she read in scrawling characters: “Mr. Andrew Wedderburn is the Master of Stair.” She made no movement, spoke no word; Jerome Caryl thought that, in her grief, she was careless as to what this could mean. “He has those papers,” he said fiercely. “He must have those papers—Perseus died defending them—” “Perseus—died?” she said. “He—killed—Perseus?” “What else?” cried Jerome Caryl. “For what was he here? It all proves it—Argyll’s warning—Hunt’s message—and that—” He pointed to Perseus and her eyes followed his gesture; she was standing very stiffly, her hand resting on the table edge. “It is a lie,” she said, “a monstrous lie.” “It is the bitter truth and we are ruined.” “No, it is a fearful lie,” said Delia slowly. “I _know_ it is a lie.” Jerome Caryl made no answer; he was bending over the charred papers on the hearth.