The tone of cold annoyance was gone now. Relief and a vague hope seemed to be struggling with an almost overwhelming anxiety.
"You will understand directly," he replied. "I have more than a suspicion that this man is seeking to connect you with his brother's death and is making use of a certain half-knowledge he possesses to get a hold over you. 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.