n, aimlessly, wondering
whether the negative result of his efforts justified his remaining in the
place, and yet loath to leave it, held there as he was by the attraction
of Edith Morriston. He felt he could be making but little way in her
favour seeing how he was failing in what he had undertaken to do for her,
and as he walked he discussed with himself whether it would not be
possible to hit on some more active plan of becoming acquainted with
Henshaw's knowledge and intentions. It was obviously a delicate business,
and after all, he thought, now that the man's undesirable presence had
practically ceased to be an annoyance to the Morristons there scarcely
seemed any need to bother about him. On the other hand, however, there
was a certain strong curiosity on his own part to know Henshaw's design
and what kept him in the town.

Gifford's walk took him over well remembered ground. He was strolling
along a path which led through the Wynford property, over a rustic bridge
across a stream he had often fished when a boy, and so on into a wood
which formed one of the home coverts. Making his way through this
familiar haunt of by-gone days he came to one of the long rides which
bisected the wood for some quarter of a mile. He turned into this and was
just looking out for a comfortable trunk where he might sit and smoke,
when he caught sight of two figures in the distance ahead walking slowly
just on the fringe of the ride. A man and a woman; their backs were
towards him, but his blood gave a leap at the sight as their identity
flashed upon him. It was, in its unexpectedness, an almost appalling
sight to him, as he realised that the two were none other than Henshaw
and Edith Morriston.

CHAPTER XIV

GIFFORD'S PERPLEXITY

Next moment Gifford had instinctively sprung back into the covert of
the trees, almost dazed by what he had seen. Henshaw and Edith
Morriston! Could it be possible? His eyes must have deceived him. About
the girl there could be no doubt. Her tall, graceful figure was
unmistakable. But the man. Surely he had been mistaken there; it must
have been her brother, or perhaps a friend who had been lunching with
them. Had Gifford, his mind obsessed by Henshaw, jumped to a false
conclusion? He stooped, and creeping warily beyond the fringe of trees
looked after the pair.

They were now some thirty yards away. There could be no doubt that the
lady was Edith Morriston; and the man? Incredible as it might se