“No?” Miss Morriston replied in an unconvinced tone.  “But he is—­” she turned to him.  “Tell me your candid opinion of this Mr. Gervase Henshaw.  Is he very—­”

“Objectionable?” Gifford supplied as she hesitated.  “Unpleasantly sharp and energetic, I should say.  Although it is, perhaps, hardly fair to judge a man labouring under the stress of a brother’s tragic death.”

“He is determined to get to the explanation of the mystery?” The tinge of excitement she had exhibited in her former question had now passed away:  she now spoke in her habitual cold, even tone.

“He says so.  Naturally he will do all he can to that end.  Of course it would be a satisfaction to know for certain how the tragedy came about:  not that it matters much otherwise.  But unfortunately he rather poses as an expert in criminology, and that will make for pertinacity.”

For a moment Miss Morriston kept silent.  “It is very unfortunate,” she murmured at length.  “It will worry poor old Dick horribly.  I think he is already beginning to wish he had never seen Wynford.”

Gifford leaned forward.  “Oh, but, my dear Miss Morriston,” he said earnestly, “you and your brother must really not take the matter so seriously.  It is all very unpleasant, one must admit, but, after all, except that it happened in your house, I don’t see that it affects you.”

“You think not,” Miss Morriston responded mechanically.

“Indeed I think so.”  As he spoke Gifford could not help a slight feeling of wonder that this girl, from whom he would have expected an attitude rather of indifference, should allow herself to be so greatly worried by the affair.  For that she was far more troubled than she allowed to appear he was certain.  It is her pride, he told himself.  A high-bred girl like this would naturally hate the very idea of a sensational scandal under her roof, and all its unpleasant, rather sordid accompaniments.  “I wish,” he added with a touch of fervour, “that I could persuade you to dismiss any fear of annoyance from your mind.”

“I wish you could,” she responded dully, with an attempt at a smile.  Suddenly she turned to him with more animation in her manner than she had hitherto shown.  “Mr. Gifford, you—­I—­” she hesitated as though at a loss how to put what she wished to say; “I have no right to ask you, who are a comparative stranger, to help us in this—­this worry, but if you cared to be of assistance I am sure you could.”

“Of course, of course I will,” he answered with eager gladness.  “Only let me know what you wish and you may command the very utmost I can do.  And please don’t think of me as a stranger.”

Edith Morriston smiled, and to Gifford it was the most fascinating smile he had ever seen.  “Only let me know how I can serve you,” he said, his pulses tingling.

“I am thinking of my brother,” she replied, in a tone so friendly that it neutralized the rather damping effect of the words.  “He is worrying over this business more than one who does not know him well would think.  I had an idea, Mr. Gifford, that you might help us by, in a way, standing between us, so far as might be possible, and this Mr. Gervase Henshaw.  He stays at your hotel, does he not?”