As one glance, now that the face was revealed, proved that, Gifford drew back quickly and hurried deeper into the thick wood fearful lest his footsteps should be heard.  When he had gone a safe distance an intense curiosity made him halt and turn.  From his place of hiding he could just see the light of the ride along which the couple would pass.  He hated the idea of spying upon Edith Morriston; after all, if she chose to walk and talk with this man it was no business of his; but a supreme distrust of Henshaw, unreasonable enough, perhaps, but none the less keen, made him suspicious that the man might be playing some cowardly game, might have drawn the girl to him by unfair means.  Otherwise it was surely inconceivable that she should have consented—­condescended indeed—­to meet him in that clandestine manner.

As Gifford stayed, hesitating between a breach of good form and a legitimate desire to learn whether the girl was being subjected to unfair treatment, the sound of Henshaw’s rather penetrating voice came into earshot, and a few seconds later they passed across the line of Gifford’s sight.

He could catch but a glimpse of them through the intervening trees as they went by slowly, but it was enough to tell him that Henshaw was talking earnestly, arguing, it seemed, and on Edith Morriston’s clear-cut face was a look of trouble which was not good to see.  It made Gifford flush with anger to think that this lovely high-bred girl was being worried, probably being made love to, by a man of that objectionable type; for that she could be in that situation without coercion was not to be believed.  The reason for Henshaw’s prolonged and rather puzzling stay in the place was now accounted for.  Moreover, to Gifford’s bitter reflection the whole business seemed clear enough.  Henshaw had been caught and fascinated by Edith Morriston’s beauty, and being, as was obvious, a man of energy and determination, was now in some subtle way making use of the tragedy as a means of forcing his unwelcome attentions on her.  How otherwise could this astounding familiarity be arrived at?  Sick with disgust and indignation, Gifford turned away and retraced his steps through the wood, dismissing, as likely to lead to a false position, his first impulse to appear on the scene and stop, at any rate for that day, Henshaw’s designs.  He felt that to act precipitately might do less good than harm.  He was, after all, on private ground there, and had no right to intrude upon what in all likelihood Miss Morriston wished to be a secluded interview.  What course he would take in the future was another matter, and one which demanded instant and serious consideration.  The right line to adopt was indeed a perplexing problem.