Edith Morriston looked at him steadily.  “You know it—­for certain?” she asked almost coldly.

“Naturally I cannot fail to know it now,” he answered sympathetically.

She gave a rather bitter laugh.  “I shall not deny it to you, Mr. Gifford, even if I thought it could be of any use.  But, knowing so much, you owe it to me to hear my explanation of matters which look so black against me, and above all to accept my absolute assurance that so far as I am concerned Clement Henshaw’s wound was quite accidental.  Indeed I never dreamt that he had been hurt until his body was found.”

Gifford seized her hand by an irresistible impulse.

“Miss Morriston, if you only knew how glad and relieved I am to hear you say that!” he exclaimed.

“When you hear my story,” she said, composedly but with an underlying bitterness which was hardly to be concealed, “the story of a long martyrdom of persecution—­for it has been nothing less—­you will acquit me of being guilty of anything disreputable.  What I did was innocent enough and it moreover was forced upon me.”

“Tell me,” he urged tenderly.

“I must tell you,” she returned, “if only to set myself right in your eyes who have been witness of the terrible sequel to it all.  But not to-night; it is too late, and the story is long:  it must be told at length.  Dick will be home by this and I must go.  I would ask you to come in, but there would be no opportunity for private talk there.  Will you meet me to-morrow morning at half-past ten by the summer-house near the wood that runs up to James’ farm?  You know it?”

“Well.  I will be there.”

“It is rather a long way for you to come,” she said, “but there are reasons for avoiding the big wood with the rides.”

“I know,” he replied.  “Henshaw might be on the look-out there for you.”  Then he added in answer to her quick look of curiosity, “I happened once by accident to see him there with you.”

“Ah, yes,” she admitted with a shudder, “I will tell you about that.”

“I think I can guess,” he said quietly.  “Now in the meantime you will take no notice of this man if he writes or tries to see you.  He will probably be exasperated by your not keeping the appointment this evening and may determine to put the screw on.”

“Yes,” she agreed with a lingering fear in her voice.

“Leave him to me to deal with,” Gifford said reassuringly.  “And do make up your mind that all will be well.”

“I will, thanks to you, my friend in need.”

And so, with a warm pressure of the hands, they parted.

CHAPTER XXIII

EDITH MORRISTON’S STORY

Next morning Gifford was in good time at the rendezvous, a sequestered corner of the park, and Edith Morriston soon joined him.  “Let us come into the summer-house,” she suggested; “it will be more convenient for my long story.”