Through the bells came the sound of footsteps; she thought it might be her brother or Caryl, but the step was too light for either.
She rose slowly, her eyes on the door.
It opened and a man stepped in.
“Miss Delia?” he asked softly, “the sister of Sir Perseus?”
“Yes.”
He closed the door.
“They sent me here to wait the coming of Mr. Caryl,” he said. “I am Andrew Wedderburn—from France.” He came into the room, his hat in his hand; Delia looked at him in silence, she stood with her hand on the arm of her chair, the firelight full on her face.
“May I wait here?” asked Mr. Wedderburn. “I have satisfied the host of my identity—but you—will you see my papers?”
“Sir—we do not question friends,” she said. “How should you be here if you were not the King’s messenger?”
His blue eyes dwelt on her a second with a curious look; he laid his hat on a chair. “Help me with my coat,” he said quietly. “Will you not—the room is warm?”