Next moment Gifford had instinctively sprung back into the covert of the trees, almost dazed by what he had seen. Henshaw and Edith Morriston! Could it be possible? His eyes must have deceived him. About the girl there could be no doubt. Her tall, graceful figure was unmistakable. But the man. Surely he had been mistaken there; it must have been her brother, or perhaps a friend who had been lunching with them. Had Gifford, his mind obsessed by Henshaw, jumped to a false conclusion? He stooped, and creeping warily beyond the fringe of trees looked after the pair.

They were now some thirty yards away. There could be no doubt that the lady was Edith Morriston; and the man? Incredible as it might seem, he was surely Gervase Henshaw. Gifford had seen him some two hours earlier, and now recognized his grey suit and dark felt hat. He stayed, crouched down, looking after the amazing pair, seeking a sign that the man was not Henshaw. After all, it was, he told himself, more likely that he had made a mistake than that Miss Morriston could be strolling in confidential talk (for such seemed the case) with that fellow. It was too astounding for belief.

They had stopped now, at the end of the ride; the man talking earnestly, it seemed; Miss Morriston standing with head bent down and scoring the grass with her walking-stick as though in doubt or consideration. Would they turn and put the man's identity beyond uncertainty?

Gifford had not long to wait. Miss Morriston seemed to draw off and began to walk back down the ride; her companion turned and promptly put himself by her side. There was no doubt now as to who he was. Gervase Henshaw.

As one glance, now that the face was revealed, proved that, Gifford drew back quickly and hurried deeper into the thick wood fearful lest his footsteps should be heard. When he had gone a safe distance an intense curiosity made him halt and turn. From his place of hiding he could just see the light of the ride along which the couple would pass. He hated the idea of spying upon Edith Morriston; after all, if she chose to walk and talk with this man it was no business of his; but a supreme distrust of Henshaw, unreasonable enough, perhaps, but none the less keen, made him suspicious that the man might be playing some cowardly game, might have drawn the girl to him by unfair means. Otherwise it was surely inconceivable that she should have consented—condescended indeed—to meet him in that clandestine manner.

As Gifford stayed, hesitating between a breach of good form and a legitimate desire to learn whether the girl was being subjected to unfair treatment, the sound of Henshaw's rather penetrating voice came into earshot, and a few seconds later they passed across the line of Gifford's sight.

He could catch but a glimpse of them through the intervening trees as they went by slowly, but it was enough to tell him that Henshaw was talking earnestly, arguing, it seemed, and on Edith Morriston's clear-cut face was a look of trouble which was not good to see. It made Gifford flush with anger to think that this lovely high-bred girl was being worried, probably being made love to, by a man of that objectionable type; for that she could be in that situation without coercion was not to be believed. The reason for Henshaw's prolonged and rather puzzling stay in the place was now accounted for. Moreover, to Gifford's bitter reflection the whole business seemed clear enough. Henshaw had been caught and fascinated by Edith Morriston's beauty, and being, as was obvious, a man of energy and determination, was now in some subtle way making use of the tragedy as a means of forcing his unwelcome attentions on her. How otherwise could this astounding familiarity be arrived at? Sick with disgust and indignation, Gifford turned away and retraced his steps through the wood, dismissing, as likely to lead to a false position, his first impulse to appear on the scene and stop, at any rate for that day, Henshaw's designs. He felt that to act precipitately might do less good than harm. He was, after all, on private ground there, and had no right to intrude upon what in all likelihood Miss Morriston wished to be a secluded interview. What course he would take in the future was another matter, and one which demanded instant and serious consideration. The right line to adopt was indeed a perplexing problem.

Gifford recalled Morriston's story of having met Henshaw hanging about more or less mysteriously in the plantation, and the annoyance he had expressed at the encounter. The reason was plain enough now. Of course the man was waiting either to waylay Edith Morriston or to meet her by appointment. It was not a pleasant reflection; since the fact showed that these clandestine meetings had probably been going on for some days past. That Henshaw's object was more or less disreputable could not be doubted, and to Gifford the amazing and troubling part of it was that Edith Morriston, the very last woman he would have suspected of consenting to such a course, who had professed an absolute dislike and repugnance to Henshaw, and fear of his annoying presence, should be meeting him thus willingly. Had he not seen them with his own eyes he would have scoffed at the idea as something inconceivable.

Now what was he to do? For it was clear that, justified or not as he might be thought in interfering in matters which did not concern him, something must be done. The one obvious course which it seemed he ought to take was to give Richard Morriston a hint of what was on foot, if not a stronger and more explicit statement. For that Morriston could be privy to the correspondence between his sister and Henshaw was quite unlikely. If anything underhand was going on, if Henshaw was holding some threat over the girl or pursuing her with unwelcome attentions her brother, as her natural guardian, should be warned. That seemed to Gifford his manifest duty. And yet he shrank from anything which might seem treachery towards the girl. For, if she needed her brother's help and protection against the man, it would be an easy matter for her to complain of his persecution. Why, he wondered, had she not done so? It was all very mysterious. He tried to imagine how the position had come about. On Henshaw's side it was plain enough. Miss Morriston was not only a strikingly handsome girl, but she was an heiress, possessing, according to Kelson, a considerable fortune in her own right. There, clearly, was Henshaw's motive; an incentive to an unscrupulous man to use every art, fair and unfair, to force himself into her favour. But how had he succeeded so quickly as to make this rather haughty, reserved girl consent to meet in secret the man whom she professed to dislike and avoid? That this unpleasantly sharp, pushing product of the less dignified side of the law could have any personal attraction for one of Edith Morriston's taste and discrimination was impossible. And yet there the challenging fact remained that confidential relations had been established between the disparate pair. Was it possible that this man could have found out something connecting Edith Morriston with his brother's death? The feasibility of the idea came as a shock to Gifford. He stopped dead in his walk as the notion took form in his brain. The possibilities of this most mysterious case were too complicated to be grasped at once. And so with his mind in a whirl of vague conjecture and apprehension he reached his hotel. And there a new development in the mystery awaited him.