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.