As she came near the little gate where he stood she stopped dead, seemed to hesitate a moment, and then turned as though to go back.  Determined to set his doubts at rest Gifford passed quickly through the gate and followed her at an overtaking pace.  Evidently sensible of her pursuit, the woman quickened her steps and, as Gifford gained on her, turned quickly from the path, threading her way among the graves to escape him.  She had gone but a few steps when in her hurry she tripped over the mound of a small, unmarked grave and fell to the ground.

Gifford ran to her and taking her arm assisted her to rise.

“Miss Morriston!” he exclaimed, for he now was sure of her identity.  “I hope you are not hurt,” he added mechanically, his mind full of a greater and more critical contingency.

“Mr. Gifford!” she responded; but he was sure she had not recognized him then for the first time.  “Oh, no, thank you; I am not in the least hurt.  It was stupid of me to trip and fall like that.  Are you going to church?” she added, evidently wishing to get away.

“I was,” he answered.  “And you?”

“I was too,” she said, conquering her embarrassment, “but I have a headache, and prefer the fresh air.  Don’t let me keep you,” she held out her hand.  “Service has begun.”

He took her hand.  “Miss Morriston,” he said gravely, “don’t think me very unmannerly, but I am not going to leave you here.”

In the bright moonlight he could see her expression of rather haughty surprise.  “I think you are unmannerly, Mr. Gifford,” she retorted defiantly.  “May I ask why you are not going to leave me here?”

“Because,” he answered with quiet decision, “Mr. Henshaw is waiting just there in Turner’s Lane.”

“Is he?” The same defiant note; but there was anxiety behind the cold pretence.

“Yes.  And pardon me, I have an idea he is waiting there for you.”

His firm tone and manner baffled equivocation.  “What is it to you if he is?” she returned with a brave attempt to suggest cold displeasure.  But her lip trembled and her voice was scarcely steady.

“It is something to me,” he replied insistently, “because it means a great deal to you.  This man is persecuting you.  He is—­”

“Mr. Gifford!” she exclaimed.  “You take—­”

He held up his hand.  “Please let me finish, Miss Morriston.  I can convince you that I am not taking too much upon myself.  I am no fool and am not interfering without warrant.  This man Henshaw has succeeded in persuading you that you are in his power.  That is very far from being the case, and I can prove it.”

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Gifford.”

The tone of cold annoyance was gone now.  Relief and a vague hope seemed to be struggling with an almost overwhelming anxiety.

“You will understand directly,” he replied.  “I have more than a suspicion that this man is seeking to connect you with his brother’s death and is making use of a certain half-knowledge he possesses to get a hold over you.  Is that not so?”