"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 _fiance_ 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?"

Now there was nothing on earth Brett detested so thoroughly as a display
of feminine sentiment, no matter how spontaneous or well-timed. At hea