He took her hand. "Miss Morriston," he said gravely, "don't think me very unmannerly, but I am not going to leave you here."
In the bright moonlight he could see her expression of rather haughty surprise. "I think you are unmannerly, Mr. Gifford," she retorted defiantly. "May I ask why you are not going to leave me here?"
"Because," he answered with quiet decision, "Mr. Henshaw is waiting just there in Turner's Lane."
"Is he?" The same defiant note; but there was anxiety behind the cold pretence.
"Yes. And pardon me, I have an idea he is waiting there for you."
His firm tone and manner baffled equivocation. "What is it to you if he is?" she returned with a brave attempt to suggest cold displeasure. But her lip trembled and her voice was scarcely steady.
"It is something to me," he replied insistently, "because it means a great deal to you. This man is persecuting you. He is—"
"Mr. Gifford!" she exclaimed. "You take—"
He held up his hand. "Please let me finish, Miss Morriston. I can convince you that I am not taking too much upon myself. I am no fool and am not interfering without warrant. This man Henshaw has succeeded in persuading you that you are in his power. That is very far from being the case, and I can prove it."
"I don't understand you, Mr. Gifford."