It was good to see the eager relief in Edith Morriston’s eyes.

“And you never told me this before,” she said.

“I could not very well,” he replied.  “And I should not have told you now had I not been forced to protect you from this man.  It is a dangerous position for me to stand in, and I should in ordinary circumstances have let the affair remain a mystery.”

“I understand your position,” she responded, with a look of gratitude.  “But you can trust me.”

“Indeed I can,” he assured her with infinite content.

“I don’t realize it now,” the girl said, with signs that she was fighting against the effect of the reaction.  “Can you trust me enough to tell me how it all happened?”

“I would trust you with my life,” he responded fervently.  “Though it hardly comes to that.  Of course I will tell you the whole story of my adventure.  But we had better not stay here.  Mr. Henshaw must be getting impatient by this time and may come to look for you.  Before he has the chance of meeting you it will be well for you to hear the real facts of the case.  Shall we come into the park, or would your brother—­”

“Dick is at church,” she said, a little shamefacedly, it seemed.  “I gave him the slip.”

“What a terrible risk you have just run,” Gifford observed as they went through the churchyard to the private gate into the park.  “If I had not happened to come along just then and see Henshaw waiting—­”

“Oh, don’t talk of that now,” she entreated.  “I knew it meant horrible misery for the rest of my life, but anything seemed better than the terrible scandal which threatened us.”

“With which Henshaw threatened you, the scoundrel,” Gifford corrected.  “Now you shall see how little he really had to go upon.”

“And yet,” she murmured, “it seemed overwhelming.  I can scarcely believe even now that the danger is past.”

“Wait till you hear my story,” he said with a reassuring smile.

They had entered the enclosed path, called Church Walk, and passing the branch which led to the drive, kept on between the tall laurel hedges.

“We shall be quite undisturbed here,” the girl said.  “Dick is sure to turn off and go in by the drive.  Now, Mr. Gifford, do trust me and tell me everything.”

“I hope it is not necessary to talk of trust between us,” he replied, with as much tenderness as his chivalry permitted.

“No; forgive me; I hope not,” she responded quietly.  “Now please tell me, Mr. Gifford, what I am longing to hear.”

“You will remember,” Gifford began, as they slowly paced the moon-lit path, “that on the evening I came down here my suitcase containing my evening clothes had gone astray on the railway.  There was no chance of its turning up at the hotel before ten o’clock, and I was therefore prevented from appearing at the dance till quite late.  Naturally I would not hear of Kelson waiting for me, which like the good-natured fellow he is, he proposed to do; he therefore went off in good time.”