It was obviously a delicate business,
and after all, he thought, now that the man's undesirable presence had
practically ceased to be an annoyance to the Morristons there scarcely
seemed any need to bother about him. On the other hand, however, there
was a certain strong curiosity on his own part to know Henshaw's design
and what kept him in the town.
Gifford's walk took him over well remembered ground. He was strolling
along a path which led through the Wynford property, over a rustic bridge
across a stream he had often fished when a boy, and so on into a wood
which formed one of the home coverts. Making his way through this
familiar haunt of by-gone days he came to one of the long rides which
bisected the wood for some quarter of a mile. He turned into this and was
just looking out for a comfortable trunk where he might sit and smoke,
when he caught sight of two figures in the distance ahead walking slowly
just on the fringe of the ride. A man and a woman; their backs were
towards him, but his blood gave a leap at the sight as their identity
flashed upon him. It was, in its unexpectedness, an almost appalling
sight to him, as he realised that the two were none other than Henshaw
and Edith Morriston.
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