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.

CHAPTER XIV

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.