“Idiot!” he whispered, as he clutched him again.

Were not the others so taken up with the throbbing influences of the moment they must have heard the rustling of the leaves.  But they paid little heed to external affairs.  The Italian was speaking.

“Nellie,” he said, “you will drive me mad.  But listen, carissima.  If I may not love you, I can at least defend you.  David Hume-Frazer, the man who murdered my wife’s brother, has returned, and openly boasts that you are waiting to marry him.”

“Boasts!  To whom, pray?”

“To me.  I heard him say this not fifteen minutes since.”

“Where?  You do not know him.  He could not be here without my knowledge.”

“Then it is true.  You do intend to marry this unconvicted felon?”

“Mr. Capella, I really think you are what English people call ‘cracked.’”

“But you believe me—­that this man has come to Beechcroft?”

“It may be so.  He has good reasons, doubtless, for keeping his presence here a secret.  Whatever they may be, I shall soon know them.”

“Helen, he is not worthy of you.  He cannot give you a love fierce as mine.  Nay, I will not be repelled.  Hear me.  My wife is dying.  I will be free in a few months.  Bid me to hope.  I will not trouble you.  I will go away, but I swear, if you marry Frazer, neither he nor you will long enjoy your happiness!”

The girl made no reply, but sprang towards the stile in sheer desperation.  Capella strove to take her in his arms, not indeed with intent to offer her any violence; but she met his lover-like ardour with such a vigorous buffet that he lost his temper.

He caught her.  She had almost surmounted the stile, but her dress hampered her movements.  The Italian, vowing his passion in an ardent flow of words, endeavoured to kiss her.

Then, with a sigh, for he would have preferred to avoid an open rupture, Brett let go his hold on Hume.  Indeed, if he had not done so, there must have been a fight on both sides of the hedge.

He turned away at once to light a cigarette.  What followed immediately had no professional interest for him.

But he could not help hearing Helen’s shriek of delighted surprise, and certain other sounds which denoted that Giovanni was being used as a football by his near relative by marriage.

Mrs. Crowe came out of her cottage.

“What’s a-goin’ on in the park, sir?” she inquired anxiously.

“A great event,” he said.  “Faust is kicking Mephistopheles.”

“Drat them colts!” she cried, adding, after taking thought; “but we haven’t any horses of them names, sir.”

“No!  You surprise me.  They are of the best Italian pedigree.”

Meanwhile, he was achieving his object, which was to drive Mrs. Crowe back towards the wicket.

Helen’s voice came to them shrilly: 

“That will do, Davie!  Do you hear me?”