“The papers?” he asked quietly.
“My brother—” said Delia, “is not in your power to restore—he is dead—”
“His was a dangerous trade,” returned the Master of Stair gloomily. “I spared him the gallows.”
Delia stared at him; the words she had been forming seemed forgotten on her lips.
“Why did you kill him?” she asked abruptly.
Sir John suddenly moved from the hearth.
“We talk at strange cross purposes,” he said. “Your brother insulted me—I did not murder him,” he shrugged his shoulders. “We all take our chances—I ran some risk to gain my end—and did more mischief than I need, maybe,” he looked at her curiously. “I’ve earned your curse—have I not?”
He made a little reckless movement with his hand as if he accepted it and flung it off.
“I have no curse for you, nor reproaches,” answered Delia in an intense voice. “I have not come to call you what I might. What is done is done—and I have lived through it. I have come to ask your mercy—because of what once you said—”
She stopped, he looked at her, saying nothing, with a great effort she went on: