ITH MORRISTON'S STORY

Next morning Gifford was in good time at the rendezvous, a sequestered
corner of the park, and Edith Morriston soon joined him. "Let us come
into the summer-house," she suggested; "it will be more convenient for my
long story."

"First of all, tell me," Gifford said, "has anything happened since last
night? Has Henshaw made any move?"

She took out a note and handed it to him. "Only that," she said with an
uneasy laugh.

"There must have been some misunderstanding last evening," Gifford read.
"I cannot think that your not keeping the appointment was intentional.
Anyhow I can wait till to-night, then I shall be at the lane just beyond
the church at 7.30. That you may not repent I hope you have not
repented." That was all.

"A thinly veiled threat," Gifford observed. "The man in his way seems as
great a bully as his brother. May I keep this? I am going to see Mr.
Henshaw presently, and have a serious talk with him. After which I shall
hope to be able to convince you that your troubles are at an end."

"If you can do that--" she said.

"The knowledge that I have been of service to you will be my great
reward. I hope I am sufficiently a gentleman not to ask or expect
any other."

She made no reply. They had entered the little rustic summer-house,
and sat down.

"Dick has driven into Branchester," Edith Morriston said, perhaps to end
an embarrassing pause. "He will not be back till luncheon, so we are not
likely to be interrupted."

"That's well," Gifford answered. "Now please begin what I am most
anxious to hear."

"The story I have to tell you, Mr. Gifford," Edith Morriston began, "is
not a pleasant one and is as humiliating to me to relate as was the
experience, the terrible experience, I had to go through. But to be fair
to myself I must be quite frank with you, and am sure you will never
give me cause to repent speaking unreservedly."

"You can rely upon my honour to respect your confidence," Gifford
responded warmly.

"I know I may," the girl answered. "Well, then, you must know first of
all, that my father married a second time, and he unfortunately chose a
woman well connected enough, but heartless and an utter snob. I suppose
men are often blind to these hateful qualities before marriage; doubtless
a clever, unscrupulous woman is able to hide her faults when she has the
main chance in view. My stepmother was a good deal younger than my
father, and I dare say on the whole ma