o my mind went to
prove that she was the person for whom I was looking. There were dark red
stains on the white roses she wore on her dress. It was an unpleasant
shock to me, placing me, as it seemed, in a terribly difficult position.
For, at the first blush of my discovery, it all seemed to fit in. Clement
Henshaw had been, I imagined, in love with Miss Tredworth before Kelson
appeared on the scene. She had thrown him over for my friend, and
Henshaw, taking his rejection in bad part, had threatened to expose some
questionable incident in her past. Now that is all happily explained
away, and I won't retrace the steps by which my imagination led me on;
but you see how painfully I was situated with respect to my friend.

"That is my story, Miss Morriston. Had I known what I know now I should
not have kept it to myself so long; but up to a certain point, until the
last few days, there seemed no reason for making the dangerous secret
known to any one. Now, when it appears necessary to protect you from this
man, Henshaw, the account of the part I played in the tragedy must be
told in your interest."

Edith Morriston drew in a deep breath as Gifford ceased speaking. "It is
very kind and chivalrous of you, Mr. Gifford," she said in a low voice,
"to run this risk for me, although your telling me the story shall never
involve you in danger."

"I am ready for your sake to face any danger the telling of my secret may
hold for me," he responded firmly.

"I am sure of that, as I am sure of you," she replied. Then added with a
change of tone, "You were certain for a while that Muriel Tredworth had
not only been guilty of something discreditable in her past but had
stabbed to death in your presence the man who knew her secret."

"I'm afraid there seemed to me no alternative but to believe it," he
acknowledged.

"When you found out that you were mistaken in her identity and that she
had nothing whatever to do with the tragedy you would naturally transfer
the opinion you had held of her to--to the other woman--the one who was
actually there?"

The question was put searchingly and was not to be evaded.

"That would be a natural consequence," Gifford admitted frankly. "But
there was in my mind always a growing doubt whether the wound had not
been given accidentally. And that doubt became almost certainty when the
real identity of Henshaw's victim became apparent."

Edith Morriston looked at him steadily. "You know it--for certai