“What was it?” she said in a frozen voice. “Some lie rang in my head—something too horrible—Jerome—what have I ever done that you should so torture me—will you not tell me?”
So strange was her voice, so disconnected and yet intensely earnest were her words, that Caryl feared for her reason.
“Delia,” he said pityingly. “I would do anything to comfort thee—yet I can give thee no hope—he is dead.”
“Yes!” she cried frantically. “But who killed him?”
“This man—this devilish villain—the Master of Stair—”
“The Master of Stair!” she echoed, clinging to him desperately. “What has he to do with us; we do not know him—I have never seen him—”
“Nay—he called himself Andrew Wedderburn—”
“No—no,” she whispered thickly, “that is not true, and you shall say so. My God! It is not true. I am mad and all the world is chaos if that is true—”
“I know it as if I had seen him do it,” he answered. “What did your brother say—the Master of Stair!”
“No! no! he did not!” shrieked Delia.