“Poor fellow,” Gifford commented.

“It was unspeakably sad,” Edith Morriston continued, “but it seemed like fate, seeing how things rearranged themselves afterwards.  Certainly if I was to blame for his piteous end, I was to pay the penalty.  For no sooner was I out of one trouble than another was ready for me.

“After this long preface, I come to the most unpleasant episode of Henshaw and his persecution.

“On the day I heard of poor Archie’s death I had gone out for a walk possessed by a great longing to be alone in my grief.  On my way home by a woodland path leading to the Hall grounds, I, to my great annoyance, came upon Clement Henshaw.  I can’t say I was altogether surprised, for I had caught a glimpse of some one very like him in the village a day or two before.  Of that I had thought little, merely taking care that the man did not see me.  But now there was no avoiding him, and I had more than a suspicion that he had been lying in wait for me.  At the risk of appearing horribly ungrateful I made up my mind on the instant to try to pass him with a bow, but need not say that was utterly futile.  He stood directly in my path, and raised his hat.

“‘I am sorry to be the bearer of sad news, Miss Morriston,’ he said.

“So he had found out my name, assuredly not by accident, and the fact angered me, perhaps unreasonably.

“‘I have heard of Mr. Jolliffe’s death,’ I replied coldly, ’if that is what you have to tell me.’

“‘I thought,’ he rejoined, with assurance, ’it quite possible you might not have heard so soon.’

“From his manner I began to see that the man was likely to become an annoyance if he were not snubbed, but soon discovered that it was not so easily done.  I thanked him coldly enough, and tried to dismiss him, but he insisted on walking with me.  What could I do?  He seemed determined to force his company upon me and I could not run away.  He tried to get out of me how I had come to be driving with Archie that night, and although I evaded his questions it was plain that he had a shrewd inkling of the reason.  Not to weary you with a long account of this disagreeable and humiliating affair, I will only say that from that day forward I became subject to a determined system of persecution from Clement Henshaw.  He waylaid me on every possible occasion, holding over me a covert threat of the exposure of my escapade, till at last I was absolutely afraid to go outside the house for fear of meeting him.”

“He wanted to marry you?” Gifford suggested.

Edith Morriston gave a little shudder.  “I suppose so.  He was always making love to me, and was quite impervious to snubbing.  When, in consequence of my keeping within bounds of the house and garden, he could not see me, he took to writing, and kept me in terror lest one of his letters should fall into my stepmother’s hands.  I wished afterwards that I had taken a bold line, confessed what had happened, and defied the consequences.  I think it was the fear of being disgraced in my brother’s eyes on his return which kept me from doing so.