“Not at all,” Gifford retorted.  “It is imperatively necessary.”

“Is it?” Henshaw sneered.  “For what purpose?”

“For Miss Morriston’s protection.”

The sneer deepened.  “I should have thought that purpose quite negligible, seeing how valiantly the lady is already protected.  But I have no objection,” he added in an offhand tone, “as you seem to distrust the lasting power of bluff, to give you an extra safeguard.  Indeed I think it just as well, all things considered, that Miss Morriston should have it.  Give me a pen and a sheet of paper.”  Henshaw’s manner was now the quintessence of insolence, but Gifford could afford, although it cost him an effort, to ignore it.  With the practised pen of a lawyer Henshaw quickly wrote down a short declaration, signing it with a flourish and then flicking it across the table to Gifford.  “That should meet the case,” he said, leaning back confidently and thrusting his hands into his pockets.  Dealing with one who, like himself, was learned in the law he had, to save trouble, written a terse declaration which he knew should be quite acceptable.  It simply stated that from certain facts which had come to his knowledge he was quite satisfied that his brother’s death had been caused by an accident, and that no one was to blame for it, and he thereby undertook to make no future charge or imputation against any one, in connexion therewith.

“Yes, that will do,” Gifford answered curtly when he had read the few lines.

Henshaw rose with a rather mocking smile.  “I congratulate you on your—­luck, Mr. Gifford,” he said with a studied emphasis, and so left the room.

CHAPTER XXVII

GIFFORD’S REWARD

With the precious declaration in his pocket Gifford lost no time in going to Wynford Place.  His light heart must have been reflected in his face, for Edith Morriston’s anxious look brightened as she joined him in the drawing-room.  All the same it seemed as though she almost feared to ask the result, and he was the first to speak.

“I bring you good news, Miss Morriston.  You have nothing more to fear from Gervase Henshaw.”

“Ah!” She caught her breath, and for a moment seemed unable to respond.  “Tell me,” she said at length, almost breathlessly.

“I have had a long and, as you may imagine, not very pleasant interview with the fellow,” he answered quietly; “and am happy to say I won all along the line.”

“You won?  You mean—?”

He had taken the declaration from his pocket-book and for answer handed it to her.  With a manifest effort to control her feelings she read it eagerly.  Then her voice trembled as she spoke.

“Mr. Gifford, what can I say?  I wish I knew how to thank you.”

“Please don’t try,” he replied lightly.  “If you only knew the pleasure it has given me to get the better of this fellow you would hardly consider thanks necessary.  Would you care to hear a short account of what happened?” he added tactfully, with the intention, seeing how painful the revulsion was, of giving her time to recover from her agitation.