"Then," still the smile of sneering incredulity, "it is clearly your duty to make it known."
"Clearly," Gifford assented in a calm tone. "That is why I asked you to come here this afternoon."
Henshaw was looking at him with a sort of malicious curiosity. In spite of his smartness he seemed at a loss to divine what the other was driving at, unless it were a well-studied line of bluff. 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.