“I fear this wretched business is upsetting you, Miss Morriston,” he said gently.  “Let me run to the house and fetch something to revive you.”

She made a gesture to stay him, and by an effort seemed to shake off the threatening collapse.  “No, no,” she said; “please don’t.  It is very stupid of me, but these repeated shocks are rather trying.  You see one has never had any experience of the sort before.”

“It was more than stupid of me to blunder into the story,” Gifford said self-reproachfully.  “But it never occurred to me—­”

“No, no; of course not,” she responded.  “And, after all, I am bound to hear all about it sooner or later.  Sit down and tell me your opinion of the affair.  Supposing the girl was not mistaken who do you think the person seen escaping from the window could have been?”

“That is difficult to say.”

“A thief, no doubt.”

“That is a natural conclusion.”

“Have the police any idea?”

“Not that I know of.  I should say decidedly no definite idea.”

“Or Mr. Henshaw?”

“Whatever Mr. Henshaw’s ideas may be he keeps them to himself.”

Miss Morriston checked the remark she had seemed about to make, and for a few minutes there was an awkward silence.  Gifford broke it.

“I am so sorry that I have been unable to get any hint of his intentions.  Believe me, it has not been for want of trying.  But the man, for reasons best known to himself, seems determined to remain inscrutable.”

The girl was staring in front of her.  “Yes,” she responded, with a catch of her breath; “that is evident.  But it does not much matter.  I know you have tried your best to do what I was foolish enough to ask you.  And now please do not think any more of it.  In my ignorance of the man’s character I set you an impossible task.  All I can do now is to thank you for your sympathy and devotion.”

Her tone pained him horribly.  “I hope, Miss Morriston,” he replied warmly, “you are not asking me to end my devotion.”

She gave a little bitter laugh.  “Seeing that it is useless I have no right to ask its continuance,” she replied almost coldly, “nor to expect you to involve yourself in my—­in our worries.”

“But if I ask to be allowed that privilege?” he urged.

She shook her head.  “No, no, my friend,” she insisted, with less warmth than the words implied, “it can lead to no good and would be a mistake.  Let the man alone.  To involve yourself with him can bring you nothing but trouble.  Promise me you will take no further heed of this unhappy business.”

She turned to him as she spoke the last words, and there seemed less trouble in her face than in his.  For at his heart there was a sickening fear and suspicion of what the words portended.

“I can’t promise that,” he objected.

“But I ask you; it is my wish,” she returned with a touch of command.