But that Gifford could
have, apart from what Edith Morriston might have told him, any intimate
knowledge of the tragedy was inconceivable.
"I shall be glad to hear what you have to say, Mr. Gifford," he
responded, in perhaps much greater curiosity than he chose to show.
"Then I have to inform you positively," Gifford answered, "that your
brother's fatal wound was the result of a pure accident."
Coming from Edith Morriston's champion, there was nothing surprising in
that assertion. Certainly if that were the other's strong suit he could
easily beat it. It was therefore in a tone of confidence and relief that
he demanded, "You can prove it?"
"I can."
"By Miss Morriston's testimony?"
"Not at all. By my own."
"Your own?" Henshaw's question was put with a curling lip.
"My own," Gifford repeated steadfastly.
"May one ask what you mean by that?"
Henshaw's contemptuous incredulity was by no means diminished even by the
other's confident attitude.
Gifford gave a short laugh. "Naturally you do not take my meaning.
Obviously you think I am not a competent witness, that I know nothing
except by hearsay.
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