“Dead?” asked Delia. “Is he dead—dead?”
“Hush!” whispered Jerome Caryl; for the man in his arms had stirred; he bent his head to catch some whisper.
Sir Perseus moved.
“Who was it?” asked Jerome Caryl. “And the papers?”
Bending close he caught a few struggling breaths. “I did my—best—I did—” Then with the effort of speaking, the blood rushed to the man’s mouth, choking him, his staring eyes fixed in an agony on the calm face bending over him.
“The Master of Stair,” he gasped, with a ghastly effort and, rolling over, sank out of Jerome Caryl’s arms.
“What does he mean?” sobbed Delia. “Has he been murdered? What has happened—is he dead?”
Jerome Caryl looked up at her.
“Yes,” he said briefly, “and the man who slew him has those papers.”
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.