“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.