“Where are they?” he asked swiftly.
She was nearing the window; the candle cast a ragged light through the shadows.
“Jerome—” she whispered fast and fearfully. “Come here—there is something here—”
Backing against the wall she stared down at the window-seat.
“God!” she shrieked suddenly. “It is a man!” The candle clattered from her slack fingers to the floor; the room was in complete darkness. Delia turned wildly through the blackness and caught Jerome Caryl’s arm.
“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.