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.
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