“It is a lie,” she said, “a monstrous lie.”
“It is the bitter truth and we are ruined.”
“No, it is a fearful lie,” said Delia slowly. “I know it is a lie.”
Jerome Caryl made no answer; he was bending over the charred papers on the hearth.
“These might be they;” he said, looking up and across at the dead man. “Now what would I not give for one word from you—one word, yes—or no—”
Delia gave no hint; she stepped forward suddenly and faced Jerome.
“Tell me,” she asked. “What did you say just now? What was that paper—show it to me.” Her voice sank to an intense appeal.
“Ah—show it to me,” she cried hoarsely. He looked at her in a quick pity.
“Forgive me—I have been blunt—poor soul, ’tis terrible for you,” he said gently.
She took no notice of his words; with the same set face she came closer and caught hold of his sleeve.