“Why do you say by me, of all people?”

“You who profess an affection for her.”

“Your word profess scarcely does me justice, Mr. Gifford,” Henshaw returned, drawing back his shut lips.  “I had, and have, a very sincere affection for Edith Morriston, which, it seems, I am not to be allowed to declare or even have credit for.  As a man of the world you can hardly pretend to be ignorant of what a man will do when his happiness is at stake.  What he does under such a stress is no guide to his real feelings.  But we need not labour that point.  My affection, genuine or not, seems to be in no fair way to be requited, and I had already made up my mind to leave it at that.  I have merely kept up the game to this point out of curiosity to see how far your—­shall we say knight-errantry?—­would lead you.  I will now relieve you from the necessity of going through an act of Quixotic folly which would assuredly, sooner or later, have unpleasant consequences for you.”

So Gifford realized with a thrill of pleasure that he had won.  He felt that in much of his speech the man was lying; that no consideration of mere unrequited affection had induced him to abandon his design.

“I am glad to hear you have come to a sensible conclusion,” he said as coolly as the sense of triumph would let him.  “Whatever happened you could hardly have expected your—­plans to succeed.”

“I don’t know that,” Henshaw retorted, with a touch of a beaten man’s malice.  “Anyhow I have my own ideas on the subject.  But looking into the future with my brother’s blood between us I think it might have turned out a hideous mistake.”

“A safe conjecture,” Gifford commented, between indignation and amusement at the cool way the man was now trying to save his face.

“Anyhow there’s an end of it,” Henshaw said with an air and gesture of half scornfully dismissing the affair.  “And so I bid you good afternoon.”

As he walked towards the door Gifford intercepted him.

“Not quite so fast, Mr. Henshaw,” he said resolutely.  “We can’t leave the affair like this.”

“What do you mean?” Henshaw ejaculated, with a look which was half defiant, half apprehensive.

“You have heard my story,” Gifford pursued with steady decisiveness, “and have, I presume, accepted it.”

“For what it is worth.”  The smart of defeat prompted the futile reply.

“That won’t do at all,” Gifford returned with sternness.  “You either accept the account I have just given you, or you do not.”

There was something like murder in Henshaw’s eyes as he replied, “This bullying attitude is what I might expect from you.  To put an end, however, to this most unpleasant interview you may take it that I accept your statement.”

“To the absolute exoneration of Miss Morriston?”

“Naturally.”

“I must have your assurance in writing.”

Henshaw fell back a step and for a moment showed signs of an uncompromising refusal.  “You are going a little too far, Mr. Gifford,” he said doggedly.