perplexity.

They had been married little more than six months. They were an
extraordinarily handsome couple, apparently well suited to each other by
temperament and mutual sympathies, whilst their means were ample enough to
permit them to live under any conditions they might choose, and gratify
personal hobbies to the fullest extent.

What, then, could have happened to divide them so completely?

Surely not Capella's new-born passion for Helen Layton. Not even a
hot-blooded Southerner could be guilty of such deliberate rascality, such
ineffable folly, during the first few months after his marriage to a
beautiful and wealthy wife.

No, this hypothesis must be rejected. Margaret Capella had drifted apart
from her husband almost as soon as they reached England on their return as
man and wife. Capella, miserable and disillusioned, buried alive in a
country place--for such must existence in Beechcroft mean to a man of his
inclinations--had discovered a startling contrast between his passionate
and moody spouse, and the bright, pleasant-mannered girl whose ill-fortune
it was to create discord between the inmates of the Hall.

This theory did not wholly exonerate the Italian, but it explained a good
deal. The barrister saw no cause as yet to suspect Capella of the young
baronet's murder. Were he guilty of that ghastly crime, his motive must
have been to secure for himself the position he was now deliberately
imperilling--all for a girl's pretty face.

The explanation would not suffice. Brett had seen much that is hidden from