With Morriston's departure a rather uncomfortable silence fell upon the party left in the room. Every one seemed to feel that there was something in the air, the shadow of a possibly serious development in the case. Even Kelson, who was otherwise inclined to be jubilant over the freeing of his fiancée from suspicion, seemed to feel it was no time or place just then for gaiety, and his expression grew as grave as that of the rest.
"I wonder what these fellows have come to say," he observed as he paced the room.
"Let's hope to announce that at last they are going to leave you in peace, Edith," Miss Tredworth said.
Edith Morriston did not alter her position as she stood looking out of the window. "Thank you for your kind wish, Muriel," she responded in a cold voice; "but I'm afraid that is too much to hope for just yet."
"Yet one doesn't see what else it can be," Kelson observed reflectively. "They can hardly have found out exactly how the man came by his death; much more likely to have abandoned their latest theory, eh, Hugh?"
Gifford was looking, held by the grip of his imagination, at the tall figure by the window; wondering what was passing behind that veil of impassiveness. "I don't see what they can have found out away from this house," he said, rousing himself by an effort to answer; "and they don't seem to have been here lately."
"Well, we shall see," Kelson said casually. "Ah, here comes Dick back again."
Morriston hurried in with a serious face. In answer to Kelson's, "Well,Dick?" he said.
"It appears a rather extraordinary piece of evidence has just come to light; one which, if true, completely solves the mystery of the locked door. I asked Freeman if there was any objection to you fellows coming to the library and hearing the story; he is quite agreeable. So will you come? You too, Edith, and Miss Tredworth; there is nothing at all horrible in it so far."
For the first time Edith Morriston turned from the window. "Is it necessary, Dick?" she protested quietly. "I'd just as soon hear it all afterwards from you. These police visitations are rather getting on my nerves."
"Very well, dear; you shall hear all about it later on," her brother responded, and led the way down to the library. Gifford was the last to leave the room, and his glance back showed him that Edith Morriston had turned again to the window and resumed her former attitude.
In the library were the chief constable, Gervase Henshaw and a local detective.
"Now, Major Freeman," Morriston said as he closed the door, "we shall be glad to hear this new piece of evidence."
Major Freeman bowed. "Shortly, it comes to this," he began. "A young woman named Martha Haynes, belonging to Branchester, called at my office this morning and made a statement which, if reliable, must have an important bearing on this mysterious case.
"It appears from her story that on the night of the Hunt Ball held here she had been paying a visit to some friends at Rapscot, a village, as you know, about a mile beyond Wynford. On her way back to the town, for which she started at about 9.45, she took as a short cut the right-of-way path running across the park and passing near the house. As she went by she was naturally attracted by the lighted windows and could hear the band quite plainly. She stopped to listen to the music at a point which she has indicated, almost directly opposite the tower.
"She says she had stood there for some little time when her attention was suddenly diverted to what seemed a mysterious movement on the outside of the tower. A dark body, presumably a human being, appeared to be slowly sliding down the wall from the topmost window. Unfortunately before she could quite realize what she was looking at—and we may imagine that a country girl would take some little time to grasp so unusual a situation—a cloud drifted across the moon and threw the tower into shadow.
"The girl continued, however, to keep her eyes fixed on the spot where she had seen the dark object descending, with the result that in a few seconds she saw it reach and pass over one side of the window of the lower room which was sufficiently lighted up to silhouette anything placed before it. She saw the object move slowly over the window and disappear in the darkness beneath it. When, a few seconds later, the moon came out again nothing more was to be seen.
"The girl stayed for some time watching the tower, but without result. She is a more or less ignorant, unsophisticated country-woman, and what she had seen she was quite unable to account for. Naturally she hardly connected it with any sort of tragical occurrence. The house with its lights and music seemed given over to gaiety; that any one should just then have met his death in that upper room never entered her imagination. A vague idea that a thief might have got into the house and she had seen him escape by the tower window did indeed, as she says, cross her mind, and that supposition prevented her from approaching the tower to satisfy her curiosity. But as nothing more happened she began to think less of the significance of what she had seen, in fact almost persuaded herself that it had been something of an optical delusion. Presently, having had enough of standing in the cold wind, she resumed her way, went home and to bed, and early next morning left the town to enter a situation in another part of the country.
"It appears that she had taken cold by her loitering and soon after reaching her destination became so ill that she had to keep her bed, and it was only on her recovery a few days ago that she heard what had happened here that night. Directly she could get away she came over and told her story to us."
"A pity she could not have come before," Morriston remarked as the chief constable paused. "Her evidence is highly important, disposing as it does of the mystery of the locked door."
"Yes," Major Freeman agreed, "and also of the suicide theory. The question now is—who was the person who was seen descending from the window?"
"Could this girl tell whether it was a man or a woman?" The question came from Henshaw, who had hitherto kept silent.
"She thinks it was a man," Major Freeman answered, "but could not swear to it. The fact of the object being close to the wall made it almost impossible in the imperfect light to distinguish plainly. But I think we may take it that it was a man. The feat could be hardly one a woman would undertake."
"No," Gifford agreed. "And there would seem little chance of identifying the person."
"None at all so far as the girl Haynes is concerned," Major Freeman replied. "But we have something to go upon; a starting point for a new line of inquiry. The person seen escaping must have lowered himself by a rope from that top window and a considerable length would be required. I have taken the liberty, Mr. Morriston, of setting a party of my men to search the grounds for the rope; they will begin by dragging the little lake."
"By all means," Morriston assented.
"Detective Sprules," the chief proceeded, "would like to make another examination of the ironwork of the window. May he go up now?"
"Certainly," Morriston answered, and the detective left the room.
Gifford spoke. "The girl saw nothing of the escaping person after he reached the ground?"
"Nothing, she says," Major Freeman answered. "But the base of the tower was in deep shadow, which would prevent that."
"A pity her curiosity was not a little more practical," Henshaw observed.
"Yes." Gifford turned to him. "You are proved correct, Mr. Henshaw, in your repudiation of the suicide idea. Perhaps, in view of this latest development, you may have knowledge to go upon of some one from whom your brother might have apprehended danger?"
Henshaw's set face gave indication of nothing but a studied reserve. "No one certainly," he answered coolly, "from whom he might apprehend danger to his life."
"There must have been a motive for the act," Kelson observed. "Unless it was a sudden quarrel."
"There appears," Major Freeman put in, "to be no evidence whatever of anything leading up to that."
"No; the cause is so far quite mysterious," Henshaw said.
It seemed to Gifford that there was something of undisclosed knowledge behind his words, and he fell to wondering how far the motive was mysterious to him.
Morriston proceeded to acquaint Major Freeman with the discovered cause of the marks on the ladies' dresses, and they all went off to the lower room where the position of the stains was pointed out. Edith Morriston was no longer there.
"Miss Tredworth sat at this end of the sofa," Morriston explained, "and so the marks on her dress are clearly accounted for."
"And Miss Morriston?" Henshaw put the question in a tone which had in it,Gifford thought, a touch of scepticism.
"Oh, my sister must have been in here too," Morriston replied. "Or how could her dress have been stained? Unless, indeed, she brushed against Miss Tredworth's or someone else's. That's clear."
There seemed no alacrity in Henshaw to accept the conclusion and he did not respond.
"I am glad this part of the mystery is so satisfactorily settled," the chief constable remarked. "Now we have the issue narrowed. Well, Sprules?"
The detective had appeared at the door.
"I have examined the ironwork of the window, sir," he said, "and have found under the magnifying-glass traces of the fraying of a rope as though caused by friction against the iron staple."
"Sufficient signs to bear out the young woman's statement?"
"Quite, sir. There is upon close examination distinct evidence of a rope having been worked against the hinge of the window."
"Very good, Sprules. We may consider that point settled," MajorFreeman said.
Having finally satisfied themselves as to the cause of the stains on the floor and sofa, the chief constable and his subordinate proposed to go to the lake and see whether the men who were dragging it had had any success. Morriston and Henshaw with Kelson and Gifford accompanied them. As they came in sight of the boat the detective exclaimed, "They have found it!" and the men were seen hauling up a rope out of the water.
"Sooner than I expected," Major Freeman observed as they hurried towards the nearest point to the boat.
The rope when landed proved to be of considerable length, sufficient when doubled, they calculated, to reach from the topmost window to within five or six feet of the ground.
"The escaping person," Henshaw said, "must have slid down the doubled rope which had been passed through the staple of the window, and then when the ground was reached have pulled it away, coiled it up, carried it to the lake, and thrown it in. Obviously that was the procedure and it accounts completely for the locked door."
The chief constable and the detective agreed.
"A man would want some nerve to come down from that height," the latter remarked.
"Any man, or woman either for that matter," Henshaw returned dogmatically, "would not hesitate to take the risk as an alternative to being trapped up there with his victim."
"You are not suggesting it might have been a woman who was seen sliding down the rope?" Gifford asked pointedly.
Henshaw shrugged. "I suggest nothing as to the person's identity," he replied in a sharply guarded tone. "That is now what remains to be discovered."
The police authorities with Henshaw and Morriston went off with the rope to experiment in the room of the tragedy.
"I don't suppose we are wanted," Kelson said quietly to Gifford; "let's go for a turn round the garden. I wonder where Muriel has got to."
They found Miss Tredworth on the lawn. "I am waiting for Edith," she said.
"We'll stroll on and Gifford can bring Miss Morriston after us," Kelson suggested, and the lovers moved away, leaving Gifford, much to his satisfaction, waiting for Edith Morriston.
In a few minutes she made her appearance. Gifford mentioned the arrangement and they strolled off by the path the others had taken.
It seemed to Gifford that his companion's manner was rather abnormal; unlike her usual cold reserve there were signs of a certain suppressed excitement.
"I hope," she said, "that Major Freeman and his people are satisfied with our discovery that the marks on Muriel's dress and mine came there by accident."
"Evidently quite convinced," Gifford answered.
"That's well," she responded with a rather forced laugh. "It was rather too bad to suspect us, on that evidence, of knowing anything about the affair."
"I don't suppose for a moment they did," Gifford assured her.
"I don't know," the girl returned. "Anyhow it was rather an embarrassing, not to say painful, position for us to be in. But that is at an end now."
Nevertheless Gifford could tell that she was not so thoroughly relieved as her words implied.
"Completely," he declared. "You have heard of the new piece of evidence?" he added casually.
For a moment she stopped with a start, instantly recovering herself."No; what is that?" in a tone almost of unconcern.
Gifford told her of the statement made by the country girl and its corroboration in the finding of the rope. As he continued he felt sure that the story was gripping his companion more and more closely. At last she stopped dead and turned to him with eyes which had in them intense mystification as well as fear.
"Mr. Gifford, do you believe that story?"
"I see no reason for disbelieving it," he answered quietly. "It is practically the only conceivable solution of the mystery of the locked door."
"Surely—" she stopped, checking the vehement objection that rose to her lips. "This girl," she went on as though searching for a plausible argument, "is it not likely that she was mistaken? We know what these country people are. And she could not have seen very clearly."
"But," Gifford argued gently, "her statement is confirmed by the finding of the rope."
Edith Morriston was thinking strenuously, desperately, he could see that. The words she spoke were but mechanical, the mere froth of a seething brain. Yet her splendid self-command—and he recognized it with admiration—never deserted her, however supreme the struggle may have been to retain it.
A seat was by them; she went across the path to it and sat down. Gifford saw that she was deadly pale.
"I fear this wretched business is upsetting you, Miss Morriston," he said gently. "Let me run to the house and fetch something to revive you."
She made a gesture to stay him, and by an effort seemed to shake off the threatening collapse. "No, no," she said; "please don't. It is very stupid of me, but these repeated shocks are rather trying. You see one has never had any experience of the sort before."
"It was more than stupid of me to blunder into the story," Gifford said self-reproachfully. "But it never occurred to me—"
"No, no; of course not," she responded. "And, after all, I am bound to hear all about it sooner or later. Sit down and tell me your opinion of the affair. Supposing the girl was not mistaken who do you think the person seen escaping from the window could have been?"
"That is difficult to say."
"A thief, no doubt."
"That is a natural conclusion."
"Have the police any idea?"
"Not that I know of. I should say decidedly no definite idea."
"Or Mr. Henshaw?"
"Whatever Mr. Henshaw's ideas may be he keeps them to himself."
Miss Morriston checked the remark she had seemed about to make, and for a few minutes there was an awkward silence. Gifford broke it.
"I am so sorry that I have been unable to get any hint of his intentions. Believe me, it has not been for want of trying. But the man, for reasons best known to himself, seems determined to remain inscrutable."
The girl was staring in front of her. "Yes," she responded, with a catch of her breath; "that is evident. But it does not much matter. I know you have tried your best to do what I was foolish enough to ask you. And now please do not think any more of it. In my ignorance of the man's character I set you an impossible task. All I can do now is to thank you for your sympathy and devotion."
Her tone pained him horribly. "I hope, Miss Morriston," he replied warmly, "you are not asking me to end my devotion."
She gave a little bitter laugh. "Seeing that it is useless I have no right to ask its continuance," she replied almost coldly, "nor to expect you to involve yourself in my—in our worries."
"But if I ask to be allowed that privilege?" he urged.
She shook her head. "No, no, my friend," she insisted, with less warmth than the words implied, "it can lead to no good and would be a mistake. Let the man alone. To involve yourself with him can bring you nothing but trouble. Promise me you will take no further heed of this unhappy business."
She turned to him as she spoke the last words, and there seemed less trouble in her face than in his. For at his heart there was a sickening fear and suspicion of what the words portended.
"I can't promise that," he objected.
"But I ask you; it is my wish," she returned with a touch of command.
"For my sake, or yours?" he rejoined.
"For both. Give me your promise. You must if we are to remain friends."
Her look and the fascination in her voice seemed to pull the very heart out of him.
"You are asking a cruelly hard thing of me," he replied, with a tremor in his voice. "I don't understand—"
"No, you don't understand," she interrupted quickly. "It is enough to know that you have taken a girl's foolish commission too seriously, so seriously as to run the risk of making things even worse than they threatened to be. Now I ask you to leave well alone."
"If it is well," he said doubtfully.
"Of course. Why should it not be?" she rejoined, in a not very convincing tone. "Now I shall rely on you—and I am sure it will not be in vain—to respect my wishes. Things seem to be in a horrible muddle," she added with a rather dreary laugh, "but let's hope they will right themselves before long."
She rose, compelling him to rise too. Something in the tone and manner of her last speech made him quite unwilling to end their conference, and desperately anxious to speak out everything that was in his mind and try to bring matters to a crisis.
"Don't go for a moment," he said as she began to move away towards the house. "I have something to say to you."
She turned quickly and faced him with a suggestion of displeasure in her eyes. "What is it?" she said with a touch of impatience.
"Only this," he answered quietly. "Have you lost a brooch, MissMorriston?"
At the question the blood left her cheeks as it had done a little while before; then surged back till her face was suffused.
"A brooch? Yes; I have missed one. Have you found it?" The words were spoken with a calmness which failed to hide the eagerness behind them.
"I think so," he answered, taking out his letter-case. "A pearl, set in diamonds mounted on a safety-pin?"
He opened the case and showed it pinned into the soft lining.
"Yes; that is mine," she said; and for a moment or two by a strange attraction each looked into the other's eyes.
Gifford bent his head over the case as he unfastened the brooch and took it out.
"Where—where did you find it?" Something in the girl's voice made him glad that he was not looking at her.
"In the garden," he said.
"In the garden?" she repeated. He was looking up now and saw the intense relief in her face. "To-day?"
"No; last time I was up here. I ought to have taken it to the house at once but—but it was a temptation to me to keep it till I could give it back to you like this. Do forgive me."
It was plain she divined what he meant, but her cold manner came to the aid of her embarrassment.
"I am only too glad to have it again. I am so glad you found it."
"So am I," he responded with a touch of fervour. "I wish I could relieve your mind of everything else as easily."
"I am sure you do," she said wistfully, and impulsively half put out her hand.
He caught it as she was in the act of checking the action and drawing it back. "You may be sure—quite sure, of my devotion," he said, and raised her hand to his lips.
An exclamation and a sudden start as the hand was quickly withdrawn made him look up. Edith Morriston's eyes were fixed with something like fear on an object behind him. An intuition told him what it was before he looked round to see Henshaw, with his characteristic, rather stealthy walk, coming towards them.
Gifford set his teeth hard as the two faced round and awaitedHenshaw's approach.
"This man shall not annoy you," he said in an undertone.
"Don't quarrel with him, for heaven's sake," she entreated in the same tone, under her breath, as the disturbing presence drew near. There was a strange excitement in her voice, though none in the set face.
"I think your brother is looking for you, Miss Morriston," Henshaw said in his even voice when he was within a dozen paces of them.
"I was just going to look for him," the girl replied in a voice strangely changed from that in which she had talked with Gifford. "Isn't it lucky? Mr. Gifford has picked up in the garden a brooch I lost some days ago. I did not dare to tell Dick, as it was his gift."
Henshaw gave a casual glance at the ornament. "I congratulate you," he responded coolly. 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. But it was evident to him, and the knowledge gave him intense concern, that the girl went in fear of Gervase Henshaw. That he was intimidating her, and using his brother's death for that purpose, was beyond doubt, and the very fact that Edith Morriston was a woman of uncommon courage and self-control, one who in ordinary circumstances would be the last to give way to fear or submit to bullying, showed how serious the matter had become.
Gifford on his part determined that this intolerable state of things must come to an end, and that in spite of the command laid upon him by the girl, he would now pit himself against her persecutor. He had given no actual promise, and even if he had it would have been drawn from him in ignorance of certain means which he possessed of help in this crisis.
And a significant circumstance which came to Gifford's knowledge a day or two after his interview with Edith Morriston in the garden of Wynford, was the cause of his beginning to take action without further delay.
Late on the next Sunday afternoon Gifford had gone for a country walk which he had arranged to bring him round in time for the evening service at the little village church of Wynford standing just outside the park boundary. His way took him by well-remembered field-paths which, although towards the end of his walk darkness had set in, he had no difficulty in tracing. The last field he crossed brought him to a by-road joining the highway which ran through Wynford, the junction being about a quarter of a mile from the church. As he neared the stile which admitted to the road he saw, on the other side of the hedge and showing just above it, the head of a man. At the sound of his footsteps the man quickly turned, and, as for a moment the fitful moonlight caught his face, Gifford was sure he recognized Gervase Henshaw. But he took no notice and kept on his way to the stile, which he crossed and gained the road. As he did so he glanced back. A horse and trap was waiting there with Henshaw in it. He was now bending down, probably with the object of concealing his identity, and had moved on a few paces farther down the road.
Why was he waiting there? Gifford asked himself the obvious question with a decidedly uneasy feeling. Henshaw the Londoner, on a Sunday evening, waiting with a horse and trap in an unfrequented lane, a road which ran nowhere but to a farm. What did it mean?
Naturally Gifford's suspicions connected Edith Morriston with the circumstance, and yet he told himself the idea was monstrously improbable. It was more likely that Henshaw was bound upon some search with the police. His movements were and had been for some time mysterious enough.
Gifford's impulse as he turned into the high road was to stay there in concealment and watch for the upshot of Henshaw's presence. The suggestion did not, however, altogether commend itself to him. He disliked the idea of spying even upon such a man as Henshaw, whom he had good reason to suspect of playing a dastardly game. It was probable, too, that Henshaw had recognized him and might be on the look-out; it would be intensely humiliating to be caught watching. So, turning the pros and cons over in his mind, Gifford walked slowly on in a state of irresolution till he came to a wicket-gate which admitted from the road to a path which ran through the churchyard.
There he stopped, debating with himself whether he should turn back and keep an eye on Henshaw or go on into the church where service was just beginning. It did seem absurd to imagine that Henshaw with his conveyance could be waiting there by appointment for a girl of the character and position of Edith Morriston. True, he had seen them walking together in secret, which was strange enough, but that need not necessarily have been a planned meeting.
Such an urgent curiosity had hold of him at the bare possibility of something wrong that he, temporizing with his scruples, was about to turn back to the lane, when he saw the figure of a woman coming towards him along the churchyard path. She was tall and so far as he could make out, muffled in a cloak and veil. His heart gave a leap, for although the woman's face and figure were indistinguishable the height and gait corresponded with those of Edith Morriston.
As she came near the little gate where he stood she stopped dead, seemed to hesitate a moment, and then turned as though to go back. Determined to set his doubts at rest Gifford passed quickly through the gate and followed her at an overtaking pace. Evidently sensible of her pursuit, the woman quickened her steps and, as Gifford gained on her, turned quickly from the path, threading her way among the graves to escape him. She had gone but a few steps when in her hurry she tripped over the mound of a small, unmarked grave and fell to the ground.
Gifford ran to her and taking her arm assisted her to rise.
"Miss Morriston!" he exclaimed, for he now was sure of her identity. "I hope you are not hurt," he added mechanically, his mind full of a greater and more critical contingency.
"Mr. Gifford!" she responded; but he was sure she had not recognized him then for the first time. "Oh, no, thank you; I am not in the least hurt. It was stupid of me to trip and fall like that. Are you going to church?" she added, evidently wishing to get away.
"I was," he answered. "And you?"
"I was too," she said, conquering her embarrassment, "but I have a headache, and prefer the fresh air. Don't let me keep you," she held out her hand. "Service has begun."
He took her hand. "Miss Morriston," he said gravely, "don't think me very unmannerly, but I am not going to leave you here."
In the bright moonlight he could see her expression of rather haughty surprise. "I think you are unmannerly, Mr. Gifford," she retorted defiantly. "May I ask why you are not going to leave me here?"
"Because," he answered with quiet decision, "Mr. Henshaw is waiting just there in Turner's Lane."
"Is he?" The same defiant note; but there was anxiety behind the cold pretence.
"Yes. And pardon me, I have an idea he is waiting there for you."
His firm tone and manner baffled equivocation. "What is it to you if he is?" she returned with a brave attempt to suggest cold displeasure. But her lip trembled and her voice was scarcely steady.
"It is something to me," he replied insistently, "because it means a great deal to you. This man is persecuting you. He is—"
"Mr. Gifford!" she exclaimed. "You take—"
He held up his hand. "Please let me finish, Miss Morriston. I can convince you that I am not taking too much upon myself. I am no fool and am not interfering without warrant. This man Henshaw has succeeded in persuading you that you are in his power. That is very far from being the case, and I can prove it."
"I don't understand you, Mr. Gifford."
The tone of cold annoyance was gone now. Relief and a vague hope seemed to be struggling with an almost overwhelming anxiety.
"You will understand directly," he replied. "I have more than a suspicion that this man is seeking to connect you with his brother's death and is making use of a certain half-knowledge he possesses to get a hold over you. Is that not so?"
For a while she was silent, her breath coming quickly, as she hesitated how to meet the direct question. Gifford hated, yet somehow rejoiced, to see this proud, cold-mannered girl brought to this pass, and the reason he rejoiced lay in the knowledge that he could help her out of it.
At length she spoke. "Mr. Gifford, I trust you as a man of honour. Your conjecture is right, but unhappily there is no help for it."
"There is help," he declared reassuringly. "Can this man prove that you are in any way guilty of his brother's death?"
The girl gave a shiver. "He can by implication," she admitted in a low voice.
"Can he prove it?"
"Not actually, perhaps. But far enough to disgrace me and mine for ever," she said with a sob.
"And with that idea he terrorizes you?" The question was put with quiet sternness.
"Yes, yes; but I cannot help it! I cannot bear it. Oh, let me go." She seemed now in an agony of fear.
Gifford laid his hand on her as she sought to move away towards the gate and the waiting enemy.
"Miss Morriston," he said with decision, "you must not go; you must have no more communication with this man Henshaw. He can prove nothing against you, while I can prove everything in your favour."
Her look of fear and impatience changed at the last words to one of startled incredulity.
"You, Mr. Gifford? What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say," he returned decisively, "I can prove, if need be, that you had no hand in that cowardly ruffian's death."
"You? How?" the girl gasped, staring at him with dilated eyes.
"I will convince you," he answered quietly. "When I told you the other day that I had found your brooch on the lawn I said, for an obvious reason, what was not true. I found it in the room where Clement Henshaw died."
"You did," the girl gasped almost in terror. "When?"
"A few minutes after his death," Gifford replied calmly. "I happened to be present in the room when he came by his fatal wound."
As she heard the words Edith Morriston stood for a moment as though transfixed, and then staggered back grasping at a tombstone for support. Gifford took a quick step forward, but before he could be of help she had recovered from the shock, and motioning him back, was looking at him with incredulous eyes.
"You were there?" she repeated, with more suspicion now than unbelief.
"In that room at the top of the tower; yes; by accident," he answered in a tone calculated to reassure her.
"Then you know—you saw what happened?"
He bowed his head in assent. "Enough to be sure that Mr. Clement Henshaw was a great scoundrel, and that his fate was not altogether unmerited. Now," he added in a tone of decision, "you will have nothing more to do with this Gervase Henshaw, or he with you."
It was good to see the eager relief in Edith Morriston's eyes.
"And you never told me this before," she said.
"I could not very well," he replied. "And I should not have told you now had I not been forced to protect you from this man. It is a dangerous position for me to stand in, and I should in ordinary circumstances have let the affair remain a mystery."
"I understand your position," she responded, with a look of gratitude."But you can trust me."
"Indeed I can," he assured her with infinite content.
"I don't realize it now," the girl said, with signs that she was fighting against the effect of the reaction. "Can you trust me enough to tell me how it all happened?"
"I would trust you with my life," he responded fervently. "Though it hardly comes to that. Of course I will tell you the whole story of my adventure. But we had better not stay here. Mr. Henshaw must be getting impatient by this time and may come to look for you. Before he has the chance of meeting you it will be well for you to hear the real facts of the case. Shall we come into the park, or would your brother—"
"Dick is at church," she said, a little shamefacedly, it seemed. "I gave him the slip."
"What a terrible risk you have just run," Gifford observed as they went through the churchyard to the private gate into the park. "If I had not happened to come along just then and see Henshaw waiting—"
"Oh, don't talk of that now," she entreated. "I knew it meant horrible misery for the rest of my life, but anything seemed better than the terrible scandal which threatened us."
"With which Henshaw threatened you, the scoundrel," Gifford corrected."Now you shall see how little he really had to go upon."
"And yet," she murmured, "it seemed overwhelming. I can scarcely believe even now that the danger is past."
"Wait till you hear my story," he said with a reassuring smile.
They had entered the enclosed path, called Church Walk, and passing the branch which led to the drive, kept on between the tall laurel hedges.
"We shall be quite undisturbed here," the girl said. "Dick is sure to turn off and go in by the drive. Now, Mr. Gifford, do trust me and tell me everything."
"I hope it is not necessary to talk of trust between us," he replied, with as much tenderness as his chivalry permitted.
"No; forgive me; I hope not," she responded quietly. "Now please tell me,Mr. Gifford, what I am longing to hear."
"You will remember," Gifford began, as they slowly paced the moon-lit path, "that on the evening I came down here my suitcase containing my evening clothes had gone astray on the railway. There was no chance of its turning up at the hotel before ten o'clock, and I was therefore prevented from appearing at the dance till quite late. Naturally I would not hear of Kelson waiting for me, which like the good-natured fellow he is, he proposed to do; he therefore went off in good time."
"Yes; I remember he arrived quite early," Edith Morriston murmured.
"Clement Henshaw," Gifford proceeded, "left the hotel about the same time. They must have reached your house within a few minutes of one another."
As he paused, his companion looked round at him inquiringly. "Yes," she said, with a certain suggestion of reticence; "I remember that too."
Gifford continued. "Having seen Kelson off, I went up to our sitting-room to wait till my kit should arrive. I was very keen on seeing again the old place where in my young days I used to spend such happy months, and my enforced waiting soon became almost intolerable boredom. The result was that I got a fit of the fidgets; I could not settle down to read, and at last, having still an hour to spare, I resolved in my restlessness to stroll out and take a preliminary look from outside at what was practically my old home."
"Yes." There was a catch of growing excitement in Edith Morriston's voice, which was scarcely above a whisper.
"The wind was sharp that night, as we all know," Gifford went on, "and forbade loitering. A smart walk of fifteen or twenty minutes brought me here, knowing as I did every path and short cut across the park. The old familiar house looked picturesque enough with its many lighted windows and every sign of gaiety. Keeping away from the front entrance where carriages were constantly driving up and a good many people were about, I went round to the other side, avoiding the stables and passing along by the west wing. This, of course, brought me to the old tower, the scene of many a game and frolic in my young days. At its foot I stood for a while recalling memories of the past. In the mere idleness of affectionate remembrance I went up to the garden door of the tower and mechanically turned the handle. It was unlocked.
"I hardly know what made me go in; an impulse to stand again in those once familiar surroundings. It was fascinating to be in the old tower which the dim light showed me was just as I had last seen it more than a dozen years ago. The past came vividly back to me, and I stood there for a while indulging in a reverie of old days. The associations of the place seemed every moment to grip me more compellingly. The tower seemed quiet and altogether deserted; all I could hear was the dance-music away in the hall. There could be no risk, I thought, of being seen if I went up to the floor above: and I quietly ascended the stairs to the first landing. The narrow passage leading to the hall was lighted up with sconces; at its farther end I could see the movement of the dancers. The band was playing a favourite waltz of mine, and I stayed there rather enjoying the music and the sight from my safe retreat.
"It did not seem likely that any one would be coming to the tower, and I resolved, foolishly enough, for, of course, I was in my travelling suit, to wander up to the next floor and take a look at the room which held a rather sentimental association for me. It was a stupid thing to do as I was there in, for the moment, a rather questionable situation, still I felt pretty secure from being noticed, and went up warily to the next floor.
"There I found the room considerably altered from my recollection of it, especially as it was arranged as a sitting-out room, but no one was there, nor were there any signs of its having been used, which from its rather secluded position, was natural enough.
"Having given a reminiscent look round I concluded that it would be best to make a retreat, especially as there would be ample opportunity later in the evening for me to visit it again. I turned and went to the door. On reaching the stairs I heard to my great annoyance the sounds of persons coming up and the subdued tones of a man's voice, I realized that I was caught, and my one chance of escape was to retreat up the topmost flight of stairs and wait in the darkness till the couple had gone into the room I had just quitted.
"Accordingly I turned and went up the remaining flight on tip-toe, two stairs at a time, waiting beyond the turn in hiding till the coast should be clear.
"The couple had now reached the landing below and, so far as I could tell, went into the room. I was just about to make a quick descent, hoping to get past that and other awkward points unnoticed, when to my dismay I became aware that the people whom I had thought safely settled in the room below had come out and were beginning to mount the topmost flight of stairs. This was indeed a most awkward predicament for me, and I debated for a moment whether my best course would not be to go boldly down the stairs and pass them, rather than retreat to the top room. If I had chosen the former course how differently things might have turned out; at any rate, for better or worse, the situation as it exists to-day might have presented itself in quite another form."
Edith Morriston glanced quickly at Gifford as he uttered the reflection.She seemed about to speak, but checked the impulse, and he continued:
"Treading noiselessly, I bolted up the remaining stairs and went into the dark room at the top. At the door, which stood open, I stopped and listened. To my intense vexation, for the situation was becoming decidedly unpleasant, the pair were still coming up. In silence now, but I could hear their approaching footsteps and the rustle of the lady's dress. Unfortunately, there was no corner on the top landing where I could stand hidden, so I was forced to draw back into the room.
"Happily it had been so familiar to me from childhood that I could find my way about it in the dark. I well remembered the little inner room formed by the bartizan of the tower, and into this I tip-toed, feeling horribly guilty. If only I had not been in that suspicious brown suit! In evening clothes there would, of course, have been no necessity for this surreptitious retreat. I devoutly hoped that the two were merely bent on exploring the place and that the darkness of the old lumber-room would quickly satisfy their curiosity and send them down again. I heard them come into the room, the man speaking in a tone so low that the words were indistinguishable from where I stood; and then the sound of the door being shut struck my ear unpleasantly.
"Then the man spoke in a more audible voice, a voice which in a flash I recognized as Henshaw's. And his first words caught my attention with an unpleasant grip."
"'Failing to get the regular invitation I had a right to expect, I have had to take this mode of seeing you,' I just caught the words in Henshaw's metallic, rather penetrating voice.
"The lady's reply was given in a tone so low that at the distance I stood the words were indistinguishable.
"'Unmanly?' he exclaimed, evidently taking up her word. 'I don't admit that for a moment. You know how we stand to one another and what my feelings are towards you. It is no use for you to try to ignore them or me. I won't stand being treated like this. There is no reason why my advances should be repulsed as though they were an insult.'
"I caught the last words of the lady's reply: '—good reason, and you know it.'
"It was more than clear to me now that I was to be the witness of a very hateful piece of business. The man's tone, even more than his words, made my blood boil, and I began to congratulate myself on being thus accidentally in a position to protect, if need be, the girl whom this fellow was evidently bullying. With the utmost care I crept nearer to the small curtained arch which admitted to the larger room. The pitch darkness of the little turret chamber in which I stood made me feel quite safe from observation. And I had no qualms now about eavesdropping; the situation surely justified it.
"I went forward till I could get a sight round the arch of the two persons in the room. They were standing near the window at some distance from me. In the obscurity, not quite as impenetrable as that out of which I looked, I could distinguish the tall figure of the girl in a dark ball-dress, and facing her, towards me, the big form of Henshaw."
"You had no idea who the lady was?" Edith Morriston interrupted him to ask.
"Naturally not the vaguest," Gifford answered. "When I had gone as far as was safe, I set myself to listen again.
"'I don't know what your game is or whether you think you can play the fool with me,' Henshaw was saying in an ugly tone. 'But I warn you not to try it; I am not a man to be fooled. Now let us be friends again,' he added in a softer tone.
"It seemed as though he put out his hand for a caress, for the girl started back and I heard her say 'Never!'
"'Folly!' he exclaimed. Then took a step forward. 'You are in love with another man?' he demanded. I could hear the hiss of the question.
"'If I were I should not tell you,' was the defiant reply in a low voice.
"'You would not?' he snapped viciously. 'Let me tell you this, then. You shall never marry another man while I live. I hold the bar to that, as you will find.'
"'You mean to act like a cad?' I heard the girl say.
"'I mean to act,' he retorted, 'like a sensible man who has a fair advantage and means, in spite of your caprice, to keep it.'
"'Fair?' the girl echoed in scorn.
"'Yes, fair,' Henshaw insisted with some heat. 'I saved you from a scandal that would have ruined you, and it was natural I should ask my reward. But your notions of gratitude, which had led me on to love you, soon evaporated; but I am not so easily dismissed.'
"'You mean to continue your cowardly persecution?' There was a tremor in the girl's voice that made me long to get at the man.
"'I mean to marry you,' he retorted. 'Or at least—'
"'Don't touch me!' she said hoarsely as he approached her.
"'You are coming away with me to-night,' he insisted. 'You need not pretend to be horrified. It won't be your first nocturnal adventure, and I have waited quite long enough.'
"He had driven her to the other corner on the window side of the room. As I leaned forward ready to fasten on the man when he should offer violence I heard a peculiar sound as of a loose piece of wood or iron striking the sill.
"'Keep away!' the girl said in a hoarse whisper. 'If you drive me to desperation I swear I will kill you.'
"There followed a vicious laugh from Henshaw and I could tell from the panting which followed that a struggle was going on. Just then the moon came out and I could see that Henshaw was trying to get some object—a weapon, I guessed—away from the girl. It is a wonder that neither of them saw me. In the dark opening I must have still been practically hidden, and they too intent on their struggle to notice anything beyond.
"I was just on the point of springing out to the girl's assistance when she staggered back and, turning, made a rush for the door. In a moment Henshaw was after her, but in his blind haste he either tripped or stumbled and fell heavily. I think it likely that in the dark he struck against the corner of the rather massive oak table in the centre of the room and was thrown off his balance. He rose immediately, but I was now close behind him, and as he put out his arm to clutch the girl, who was then half through the doorway, I gripped him by the collar and with all my strength swung him back into the room.
"He must have been most horribly surprised, for he uttered a gasping cry as he spun round, and instead of keeping his feet and rushing at me as I expected he went down with a thud by the window."
They had stopped in their walk now, and Edith Morriston was listening almost breathlessly to Gifford's graphic story. Never for a moment had he suggested the lady's identity; for all that had passed neither of them might have known it.
"I turned quickly to the door," Gifford continued, "but to my surprise the lady whom I expected to find there had disappeared. I could neither see nor hear any sign of her.
"I took a step back into the room, fully expecting an onslaught from the infuriated Henshaw. 'You cowardly brute!' I exclaimed in the heat of my anger and excitement. But no reply came, and to my wonder he lay still on the floor where he had fallen."
"I waited for some time in silence, expecting him every moment to rise and retaliate. He was a big, muscular man, but it never occurred to me to be in any fear of him physically. For one thing my indignation was too hot to admit fear; I happen to be quite good enough at boxing to be able to take care of myself, and I was sure—all the more from his continuing to lie there—that such a despicable bully must be a coward.
"'You had better get up and clear out of this house,' I said wrathfully, 'before you get the thrashing you so richly deserve.'
"No answer came. As I waited for one there was, save for my own breathing, dead silence in the room. Before speaking I had heard something like a long drawn sigh come from the man on the floor, but now, listening intently, I could hear nothing. Two explanations suggested themselves to account for his still lying there. One, shame at his vile conduct having been witnessed by a third person, the other that he had struck his head against the wall in falling and was stunned.
"Naturally I was not greatly concerned at the fellow's condition, whichever it was; still it would, I concluded, be well to settle the matter, and if he was merely skulking see that he cleared out of the house. I shut the door, and then crossing to where the man lay, struck a match and held it out to get a view of him.
"He lay on his face with his arms bent under him. I prodded him with my foot, but he did not stir; he lay absolutely, rather uncannily still. The match burned out; I struck another and leaned over to get a sight of his face. To my horror there met my eyes a dark wet patch on the floor which I instinctively felt must be blood. You may imagine the terrible thrill the conviction gave me. Yet I could not believe even then that anything really serious had happened.
"I struck a fresh match and holding it up with one hand, with the other took the man's shoulder and turned him over on his back. Then I knew that I was there with a dead man. The hue of the face was unmistakably that of death. And the cause of it was plainly to be seen. There was a wound in the man's neck from which blood came freely.
"How had the wound—clearly a fatal one—been caused? I searched for an explanation. That which forced itself upon me was that the girl had in her desperation stabbed her persecutor with some weapon she had found there or brought with her. It was a horrible idea to entertain, although the act would have been almost justified. I wondered if by chance the weapon was still there. Striking a match I looked round. Yes; there on the floor near the spot where Henshaw had first fallen, lay a narrow blood-stained chisel.
"Whatever my first conclusions were I can see now the most probable explanation of how Henshaw came by his death-wound. He had forced the chisel away from the girl; he had kept it in his hand; in his eagerness to prevent his victim's escape he had not realized that he was holding it point upwards, and when he fell it had pierced him with all the force of his heavy body falling plump on it."
"Then you know it was an accident?" Edith Morriston drew a great breath of relief from the painful tension with which she had listened.
"I can see it was a pure accident," Gifford answered. "All the same it was an accident with an ugly look about it, and I quickly realized that I was in an equivocal—not to say dangerous, situation."
"It was a terrible predicament for you," the girl said sympathetically.
"It was indeed. And one which called for prompt action. Moreover the very fact that I was not in evening clothes made it all the more suspicious. I pulled my wits together and proceeded to make quite sure that the man was actually dead. That I found was beyond all doubt the case, and it now remained for me to make my escape before being found there in that hideous situation.
"I went out to the landing, closing the door after me, with the idea of getting down the stairs and escaping into the garden as secretly as I had come in. I had crept down a very few stairs when I found this was not to be. A chatter of voices just below told me that people were in the tower, and leaning over I could see couples passing between the passage to the hall and the room below me.
"At any moment, I realized, some of them might take it into their heads to explore the topmost room, when the result would be disastrous. Certainly in my mufti I could not get past the next floor just then without exciting fatal notice, and to wait for an opportunity when the coast might be clear was too dangerous, seeing the risk of someone coming up.
"It was not easy to see my way of escape. I went to the top room and locked the door. My nerves were pretty strong, but they were severely tried when I shut myself in with the dead man and had the consciousness of having laid myself open to the charge of being his murderer. I stood there by the door thinking desperately what I could do. Fool that I had been to venture into the place in that garb. But who could have foreseen the result? Anyhow there was no time for reflection; it was necessary to act and seek a possible expedient. Hopelessly enough I went into the little inner room and struck a match. In a moment a thrill of hope came to me, for the first object the light showed me was a big coil of rope conspicuous among the odds and ends of lumber in the recess. The idea of escape by the window had only occurred to me to be dismissed as a sheer impossibility; the height of the tower made that quite prohibitive, but here seemed a chance of it. If only the rope was long enough.
"I got hold of the coil as my match burned out, and pulled it away from the surrounding rubbish. Its weight gave me hope that it would be sufficient. In haste I dragged it to the outer room into which the moonlight was now streaming. With a shuddering glance at the dead man, whose ashen face stared up in ghastly fashion in the moonbeams, I opened the window and looked out to make sure that no one was below. Satisfied on that point I brought forward the rope and began paying it out of the window. To my content I saw that there was a strong iron stanchion at the side which would allow of the rope being fastened to it.
"There was light enough just then to enable me to see pretty well when the end of the rope reached the ground, and upon examining what was left in the room I calculated that not much more than half was outside. In a flash the discovery gave me an idea. Why should I not simply pass the rope behind the stanchion and use it doubled? By that means I could pull it down after me when I reached the ground, and so not only effect my escape but also leave the fact unknown. That, together with the door locked on the inside, would tend to make Henshaw's death a mystery with a strong probability in favour of suicide, which would be altogether the happiest conclusion to arrive at. 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. I laid the chisel by the body, went to the window, pulled in the rope, carefully got the centre, adjusted it through the stanchion, and with a last look at the dead man, got out of the window, a rather nerve-trying business, and began to lower myself. I had calculated that the double rope was long enough to take me to within a few feet of the ground, and this proved to be the case. When I came to the end I let go of one side and pulled the other with me as I dropped. Then I drew the rope down, the latter half when released falling with a great thud. Hastily I set off for the lake, dragging the rope after me. At the landing-stage by the boat-house I coiled it up as best I could and threw it in. As I had anticipated it was thick and heavy enough to sink without being weighted. Then with a last glance at the tower I made my way as quickly as possible to the hotel in a state of nerves which you may imagine, little thinking that my descent from the tower had been witnessed. My first intention was to abandon all idea of going to the dance, but on reflection I came to the conclusion that I had better at least put in an appearance there.
"Accordingly I changed and came on late to the ball, as you know. Naturally a great curiosity possessed me to find out the girl who had played the third part in the drama which had been enacted in the tower. But I had not seen her face, nor heard her voice sufficiently to be able to recognize it. There were several tall girls in the room, yourself among the number, but naturally it never occurred to me—"
He stopped awkwardly, just as by inadvertence he was about to say that which all along he had studiously refrained from suggesting.
"To suspect me," Edith Morriston completed his sentence with a smile.
"No," he continued frankly. "You would have been the last person to enter my head in that connexion. And then Kelson came out of the passage from the tower with Miss Tredworth, to whom he had just proposed. He introduced me in a way which suggested their new relationship, and we had just began to chat when to my horror I noticed what to my mind went to prove that she was the person for whom I was looking. There were dark red stains on the white roses she wore on her dress. It was an unpleasant shock to me, placing me, as it seemed, in a terribly difficult position. For, at the first blush of my discovery, it all seemed to fit in. Clement Henshaw had been, I imagined, in love with Miss Tredworth before Kelson appeared on the scene. She had thrown him over for my friend, and Henshaw, taking his rejection in bad part, had threatened to expose some questionable incident in her past. Now that is all happily explained away, and I won't retrace the steps by which my imagination led me on; but you see how painfully I was situated with respect to my friend.
"That is my story, Miss Morriston. Had I known what I know now I should not have kept it to myself so long; but up to a certain point, until the last few days, there seemed no reason for making the dangerous secret known to any one. Now, when it appears necessary to protect you from this man, Henshaw, the account of the part I played in the tragedy must be told in your interest."
Edith Morriston drew in a deep breath as Gifford ceased speaking. "It is very kind and chivalrous of you, Mr. Gifford," she said in a low voice, "to run this risk for me, although your telling me the story shall never involve you in danger."
"I am ready for your sake to face any danger the telling of my secret may hold for me," he responded firmly.
"I am sure of that, as I am sure of you," she replied. Then added with a change of tone, "You were certain for a while that Muriel Tredworth had not only been guilty of something discreditable in her past but had stabbed to death in your presence the man who knew her secret."
"I'm afraid there seemed to me no alternative but to believe it," he acknowledged.
"When you found out that you were mistaken in her identity and that she had nothing whatever to do with the tragedy you would naturally transfer the opinion you had held of her to—to the other woman—the one who was actually there?"
The question was put searchingly and was not to be evaded.
"That would be a natural consequence," Gifford admitted frankly. "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. "I shall not deny it to you, Mr. Gifford, even if I thought it could be of any use. But, knowing so much, you owe it to me to hear my explanation of matters which look so black against me, and above all to accept my absolute assurance that so far as I am concerned Clement Henshaw's wound was quite accidental. Indeed I never dreamt that he had been hurt until his body was found."
Gifford seized her hand by an irresistible impulse.
"Miss Morriston, if you only knew how glad and relieved I am to hear you say that!" he exclaimed.
"When you hear my story," she said, composedly but with an underlying bitterness which was hardly to be concealed, "the story of a long martyrdom of persecution—for it has been nothing less—you will acquit me of being guilty of anything disreputable. What I did was innocent enough and it moreover was forced upon me."
"Tell me," he urged tenderly.
"I must tell you," she returned, "if only to set myself right in your eyes who have been witness of the terrible sequel to it all. But not to-night; it is too late, and the story is long: it must be told at length. Dick will be home by this and I must go. I would ask you to come in, but there would be no opportunity for private talk there. Will you meet me to-morrow morning at half-past ten by the summer-house near the wood that runs up to James' farm? You know it?"
"Well. I will be there."
"It is rather a long way for you to come," she said, "but there are reasons for avoiding the big wood with the rides."
"I know," he replied. "Henshaw might be on the look-out there for you." Then he added in answer to her quick look of curiosity, "I happened once by accident to see him there with you."
"Ah, yes," she admitted with a shudder, "I will tell you about that."
"I think I can guess," he said quietly. "Now in the meantime you will take no notice of this man if he writes or tries to see you. He will probably be exasperated by your not keeping the appointment this evening and may determine to put the screw on."
"Yes," she agreed with a lingering fear in her voice.
"Leave him to me to deal with," Gifford said reassuringly. "And do make up your mind that all will be well."
"I will, thanks to you, my friend in need."
And so, with a warm pressure of the hands, they parted.