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.
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