"Yes," said Furneaux.

"Ah. So far, so good. My poor wife reached the parting of the ways. She
saw that her life was becoming an empty husk. I think the theater was
palling on her. But I see now that she still cherished the dream of
winning the man she loved--not me, her husband, but that handsome
dilettante, Grant. I take it, therefore, that she went to Steynholme to
determine whether or not the glamour of the past was really dead.
Unfortunately, she witnessed certain idyllic passages between her
one-time lover and a charming village girl. Imagine the effect of this
discovery on one of the artistic temperament. 'Hell hath no fury like a
woman scorned,' and my unhappy wife would lash herself into an emotional
frenzy. She would tear a passion to rags. Her very training on the stage
would come to her aid in scathing words--perhaps threats. If Grant
remained cold to her appeal the village beauty should be made to suffer.
Then _he_ would flame into storm. And so the upas-tree of tragedy spread
its poisonous shade until reason fled, and some demon whispered, 'Kill!'
I find no flaw in my theory. It explains the inexplicable. Now, how does
it strike you, Mr. Furneaux?"

"As piffle."

"Is that so? I have the advantage, of course, in knowing my wife's
peculiarities. And I have made some study of Grant. He admits already
that he is under suspicion. Why, if he is innocent? Mind you, I pay
little heed to the crude disposal of the body. Horace, I think, has a
truism that art lies in concealing art. My wife's presence in Steynholme
was no secret. She would have been missed from the inn. Search would be
made. The murder must be revealed sooner or later, and the murderer