GIFFORD'S PERPLEXITY
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.