"What else can it be? Certainly not Mr. Capella's foolish actions. If Davie and I were married, and far away from this neighbourhood, we would probably never see him again. I assure you I attach no serious significance to his mad fancy for me. The real reason for the present bother is Davie's desire to reopen the story of the murder. Of that I am convinced." "Then what do you wish me to do?" Helen's eyes became suspiciously moist. "How am I to decide?" she said tremulously. "Naturally, I want the name of my future husband to be cleared of the odium attached to it, but it is hard that this cannot be done without driving a dear woman like Margaret to despair, perhaps to the grave." "I do not see why the one course should involve the other." "Nor do I; but the fact remains. Mr. Capella's decision to go to Naples is somehow bound up with it. Oh, dear! During the last two years a dozen or more girls have been happily married in this village without any one being killed, or running away, or dying of grief. Why should those things descend upon my poor little head?" "Perhaps you are mistaken. Events have conspired to point to you as the unconscious source of a good deal that has happened. Personally, Miss Layton, I incline to the belief that you are no more responsible than David Hume-Frazer. If the mystery of Sir Alan's death is ever solved, I feel assured that its genesis will be found in circumstances not only beyond your control, but wholly independent, and likely to operate in the same way if both you and your _fiancé_ had never either seen or heard of Beechcroft Hall." "Oh, Mr. Brett," she cried impulsively, "I wish I could be certain of that!" "Try and adopt my opinion," he answered, with a smile, for the girl's dubiety was not very flattering. "I know I am saying the wrong thing. I cannot help it. Margaret's distress tried me sorely. Be gentle with her--that is all I ask." The door opened, and Mrs. Capella entered. Helen's observations had prepared Brett to some extent, yet he was shocked to see the havoc wrought in Margaret's appearance by days of suffering and nights of sleepless agony. Her face was drawn and ivory-white, her eyes unnaturally brilliant, her lips bloodless and pinched. She was again garbed in black, and the sombre effect of her dress supplied a startling contrast to the deathly pallor of her features. She recognised Brett's presence by a silent bow, and sank on to a couch. She was not acting, but really ill, overwrought, inert, physically weak from want of food and sleep. Helen ran to her side, and took her in a loving clasp. "You poor darling!" she cried. "Why are you suffering so?"