“No,” Gifford assented thoughtfully; “it is inconceivable, unless by the supposition that she may by some means have come in contact with some one who was concerned in the crime.”

“You mean if a man had a stain on his coat and danced with her—­”

“Something of the sort.  If there were blood on his lapel or sleeve.”

“H’m!  It would be easy to ascertain for certain whom she danced with,” Morriston said reflectively.  “But that again is almost unthinkable.”

“And,” Gifford added, “it seems to go no way towards elucidating the problem of how Henshaw came to his death.  As a matter of fact I should say Miss Tredworth danced and sat out nearly the whole of the evening with Kelson.  You know he proposed at the dance?”

“Yes, I understood that.  Poor Kelson; I am sorry for him, and for them both.  It is an ominous beginning of their betrothal.”

“It is horrible,” Gifford observed sympathetically.  “Although one tries to think there is really nothing in it for them to be concerned about.”

The dance was an enjoyable affair, and, at any rate for the time, dispersed the depression which had hung over the party from Wynford.  Gifford had engaged Miss Morriston for two waltzes, and after a turn or two in the second his partner said she felt tired and suggested they should sit out the rest of it.  Accordingly they strolled off to an adjoining room and made themselves comfortable in a retired corner, Gifford, nothing loath to have a quiet chat with the handsome girl whose self-possessed manner with its suggestion of underlying strength of feeling was beginning to fascinate and intrigue his imagination.

“It is rather pleasant,” she said a little wearily, “to get away from the atmosphere of mystery and police investigation we have been living in at home.”

“Which I hope and believe will very soon be over,” Gifford responded cheeringly.

Miss Morriston glanced at him curiously.  “You believe that?” she returned almost sharply.  “How can you think so?  It seems to me that with little apparent likelihood of clearing up the mystery, the affair may drag on for weeks.”

Gifford answered with a reassuring smile.  “Hardly that.  If the police can make nothing of it, and they seem to be quite nonplussed, they will have to give up their investigations and fall back on their first theory of suicide.”

Leaning back and watching his companion’s face in profile as she sat forward, he could see that his suggestion was by no means convincing.

“I wish I could take your view, Mr. Gifford,” she returned, with the suggestion of a bitter smile.  “I dare say if the authorities were left to themselves they might give up.  But you forget a very potent factor in the tiresome business, the brother, Mr. Gervase Henshaw; he will keep them up to the work of investigation, will he not?”

“Up to a certain point, and one can scarcely blame him.  But even then, the police are not likely to continue working on his theories when they lead to no result.”