"Yes," Gifford agreed thoughtfully; "they could not both have had a hand in it."
"Or either, for that matter," Kelson returned with a laugh. "Don't you admit that the idea is in the highest degree ridiculous?" he added more sharply as Gifford remained silent.
"It is—inconceivable," he admitted abstractedly.
Kelson, who had taken up his hat and crop and was turning to the door, wheeled round quickly. "My dear Hugh," he exclaimed impatiently, "what is the matter with you? What monstrous idea have you got in your head? You owe it to me, and I really must ask you, to speak out plainly. It seems almost an insult to Muriel to ask the question, but do you still persist in the notion that she had, even in the most innocent way, anything to do with Henshaw's death? Because I have her positive assurance that she knows nothing of it, beyond what is common knowledge."
"I too am quite certain of that now," Gifford answered.
"Why do you say now?" Kelson demanded sourly. "Surely you never seriously entertained such an abominable idea."
"You must admit, my dear Harry," Gifford replied calmly, "that with a man stabbed to death in practically the next room, the blood-stains on Miss Tredworth's dress were bound to give rise to conjecture. One would suspect an archbishop in a similar position. But that is all over now. I am as convinced as you can be that Miss Tredworth knew nothing of the business."
"On your honour that is your opinion?"
"On my honour."
"This new discovery has changed your opinion?"