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"It is very kind of you to say so," his host rejoined. "Anyhow the least I can do is to ask you with all sincerity to make yourself free of the place while you are in the neighbourhood. Edith," he called to a tall, handsome girl who was just passing on a man's arm, "this is Mr. Gifford, who knows Wynford much better than we do." Miss Morriston left her partner and held out her hand.
In fact my hastily formed calculation was, as we know, subsequently borne out and the suicide theory would probably have been quietly accepted had it not been for the intervention of Gervase Henshaw with his smartness and incredulity. "That is practically the end of my story, Miss Morriston.
For some moments Henshaw did not speak; indeed, it was probable that the unexpected success of his search for Edith Morriston for such doubtless was his object had so disagreeably startled him, that he was unable to pull those sharp wits of his together at once.
"They don't seem to have come to any definite conclusion as to how the tragedy happened," Morriston said. "They have an idea, as I gather from Major Freeman, where to look for the murderer, if murder it was; which I am rather inclined to doubt." "Is Henshaw likely to give up the search?" Gifford asked. Morriston looked puzzled. "I can't make out," he answered in a slightly perplexed tone.
"Yes; he is expected there to-morrow morning, if not to-night." "You may perhaps," the girl proceeded, "be able I don't know how, and I have no right to ask it " "Please, Miss Morriston!" Gifford pleaded. "To minimize any annoyance we are likely to suffer through his his uncomfortable zeal," she resumed hesitatingly.
"But there was in my mind always a growing doubt whether the wound had not been given accidentally. And that doubt became almost certainty when the real identity of Henshaw's victim became apparent." 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.
He had an important business engagement for the next day, Wednesday, which he failed to keep, and this may mean a considerable loss to him. Can you throw any light on his movements down here?" Morriston, dreading to break the news abruptly, had not interrupted his questions. "I am sorry to say I can," he now answered in a subdued tone. "Sorry?" Henshaw caught up the word quickly.
Then Gifford saw his eyes seek hers as he added: "Where was it found? Near the tower?" The covert malice of the insinuation was plain in the questioner's look, although the tone was casual enough. "No. On the lawn," Gifford replied quietly. Nothing more of importance happened that day at Wynford, and Gifford had no further opportunity of private talk with Edith Morriston.
From beneath a kilt peep out the brawny limbs of Willie Brown of Linkwood and Morriston, nephew of stout old Sir George who commanded the light division at the Alma, son to a factor whose word in his day was as the laws of the Medes and Persians over a wide territory, and himself the feeder of the leviathan cross red ox and the beautiful gray heifer which took honours so high at one of the recent Smithfield Christmas Shows.
As they stood there looking over the undulating park, and Gifford, curbing his impatience, was talking of certain changes which had taken place since his early days there, the butler was seen hurrying towards them. "Callers, I suppose," Morriston observed with a half-yawn. "What is it, Stent?" "Could I speak to you, sir?" the man said, stopping short a little distance away.
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