“Does any one know his own mind at such a crisis as you have just passed through?” he said, a little wistfully.  “Edith,” he went on as he took her unresisting hand, “you must not be offended with me.  Think.  The whole object of what I have done for you has been to set you free, as free as though you had woke up to find the episode of these Henshaws had been no more than a horrible dream.  You must be free, you must realize and enjoy your freedom.  You are now relieved from the crushing weight you have borne so long; the release must be untouched by the shadow of a bargain expressed or implied.  That is the only way in which a man of honour can regard the position.”

“Very well,” she returned simply, “I understand.  I am sorry for my mistake.”

Her manner shook his resolution.  “I can’t think you understand,” he replied forcibly.  “I only ask, in fairness to yourself, for time.  Don’t think that I am not desperately in love with you.  You must have seen it, ever since our first confidential talk, that night at the Stograve dance.  And my love has gone on increasing every day till—­oh, you don’t know how cruelly hard it is to resist taking you at your word.  But I can’t, I simply can’t snatch at an unfair advantage, however great the temptation.  I must give you time, time to know your own heart when the nightmare shall have passed away.  I propose to return to town as soon as this man Henshaw has cleared out of the neighbourhood.  Will you let us be as we are for a month, Edith, and if then you are of the same mind, send me a line and I will come to you by the first train.  Is not that only fair?”

She gave a little sigh of contentment.  “Very well,” she said, “if that will satisfy you.”

He took her hand.  “It will seem a horribly long time to wait; but I feel it is right.  Today is the 16th; on this day month I shall hear from you?”

“Yes, on the 16th,” she answered.

“And so,” he said, “you are free, unless you call me back to you.”

“That is understood,” she said with a smile.

He might have kissed her lips, her look into his eyes was almost an invitation, but, having steeled himself to be scrupulously fair, he refrained and contented himself with kissing her hand.

On reaching the hotel he heard with satisfaction that Henshaw had gone off by the late afternoon train and had suggested the unlikelihood of his returning.  “So I suppose he is content to let the mystery remain a mystery,” the landlord remarked.  And the Coroner’s jury subsequently had perforce to come to the same conclusion.

On the 16th of the following month, Hugh Gifford’s impatience and anxiety were set at rest, as the morning’s post brought the expected letter from Wynford.

“Dick and I are expecting you here tomorrow, unless you have changed your mind—­I have not.  The 3.15 train shall be met if you do not wire to the contrary.”

When Gifford jumped out of the 3.15 Edith was on the platform.  As they shook hands he read in her eyes an unwonted happiness and knew for certain that all was well.