Cyril and Valdriguez spent the next morning making a thorough search of the library, but the paper they were looking for could not be found. Cyril had from the first been sceptical of success. He could not believe that her child was still alive and was convinced that Arthur Wilmersley had fabricated the story simply to retain his hold over the unfortunate mother. Valdriguez, however, for a long time refused to abandon the quest. Again and again she ransacked places they had already carefully examined. When it was finally borne in upon her that there was no further possibility of finding what she so sought, the light suddenly went out of her face and she would have fallen if Cyril had not caught her and placed her in a chair. With arms hanging limply to her sides, her half-closed eyes fixed vacantly in front of her, she looked as if death had laid his hand upon her. Thoroughly alarmed, Cyril had the woman carried to her room and sent for a doctor. When the latter arrived, he shook his head hopelessly. She had had a stroke; there was very little he could do for her. In his opinion it was extremely doubtful if she would ever fully recover her faculties, he said.

Cyril having made every possible arrangement for the comfort of the afflicted woman, at last allowed his thoughts to revert to his own troubles.

He realised that with the elimination of both Valdriguez and Prentice there was no one but Anita left who could reasonably be suspected of the murder; for that the two Frenchmen were implicated in the affair, was too remote a possibility to be seriously considered. No, he must make up his mind to face the facts: the girl was Anita Wilmersley and she had killed her husband! What was he going to do, now that he knew the truth? Judson's advice that Anita should give herself up, he rejected without a moment's hesitation. Yet, he had to acknowledge that there was little hope of her being able to escape detection, as long as the police knew her to be alive.... Suddenly an idea occurred to him. If they could only be made to believe that she was dead, that and that alone would free her at once and forever from their surveillance. She would be able to leave England; to resume her life in some distant country where he.... Cyril shrank instinctively from pursuing the delicious dream further. He tried to force himself to consider judicially the scheme that was shaping itself in his mind; to weigh calmly and dispassionately the chances for and against its success. If a corpse resembling Anita were found, dressed in the clothes she wore the day she left Geralton, it would surely be taken for granted that the body was hers and that she had been murdered. But how on earth was he to procure such a corpse and, having procured it, where was he to hide it? The neighbourhood of the castle had been so thoroughly searched that it would be no easy task to persuade the police that they had overlooked any spot where a body might be secreted. Certainly the plan presented almost insurmountable difficulties, but as it was the only one he could think of, Cyril clung to it with bull-dog tenacity.

"Impossible? Nonsense! Nothing is impossible! Impossible is but a word designed to shield the incompetent or frighten the timid," he muttered loudly in his heart, unconsciously squaring his broad shoulders.

He decided to leave Geralton at once, for the plan must be carried out immediately or not at all, and it was only in London that he could hope to procure the necessary assistance.

On arriving in town, however, Cyril had to admit that he had really no idea what he ought to do next. If he could only get in touch with an impoverished medical student who would agree to provide a body, the first and most difficult part of his undertaking would be achieved. But how and where was he to find this indispensable accomplice? Well, it was too late to do anything that evening, he decided. He might as well go to the club and get some dinner and try to dismiss the problem from his mind for the time being.

The first person he saw on entering the dining-room was Campbell. He was sitting by himself at a small table; his round, rosy face depicted the utmost dejection and he thrust his fork through an oyster with much the same expression a man might have worn who was spearing a personal enemy.

On catching sight of Cyril, he dropped his fork, jumped from his seat, and made an eager step forward. Then, he suddenly wavered, evidently uncertain as to the reception Cyril was going to accord him.

"Well, this is a piece of luck!" cried Cyril, stretching out his hand.

Guy, looking decidedly sheepish, clasped it eagerly.

"I might as well tell you at once that I know I made no end of an ass of myself the other day," he said, averting his eyes from his friend's face. "It is really pretty decent of you not to have resented my ridiculous accusations."

"Oh, that's all right," Cyril assured him, "I quite understood your motive. But I am awfully glad you have changed your attitude towards me, for to tell you the truth, I am in great need of your assistance."

"Oh, Lor'!" ejaculated Campbell, screwing up his face into an expression of comic despair.

As soon as there was no danger of their being overheard, Cyril told Campbell of his interview with Judson. At first Guy could not be persuaded that the girl was Anita Wilmersley.

"She is not a liar, I am sure of it! If she said that her hair had turned white, it had turned white, and therefore it is impossible that she had dyed it," objected Campbell.

"Judson suggested that she dyed only part of her hair and that it was the rest which turned white."

Having finally convinced Guy that there was no doubt as to the girl's identity, Cyril proceeded to unfold his plan for rescuing her from the police.

Guy adjusted his eye-glass and stared at his friend speechless with consternation.

"This affair has turned your brain," he finally gasped. "Your plan is absurd, absolutely absurd, I tell you. Why, even if I could bribe some one to procure me a corpse, how on earth could you get it to Geralton?"

"In a motor-car."

"And where under Heaven are you to hide it?"

"Get me a corpse and I will arrange the rest," Cyril assured him with more confidence than he really felt.

"First you saddle me with a lot of stolen jewels and now you want me to travel around the country with a corpse under my arm! I say, you do select nice, pleasant jobs for me!" exclaimed Campbell.

"Have you any other plan to suggest?" asked Cyril.

"Can't say I have," acknowledged Guy.

"Are you willing to sit still and see Anita Wilmersley arrested?"

"Certainly not, but your scheme is a mad one—madder than anything I should have credited even you with having conceived." Campbell paused a moment as if considering the question in all its aspects. "However, the fact that it is crazy may save us. The police will not be likely to suspect two reputable members of society, whose sanity has so far not been doubted, of attempting to carry through such a wild, impossible plot. Yes," he mused, "the very impossibility of the thing may make it possible."

"Glad you agree with me," cried Cyril enthusiastically. "Now how soon can you get a corpse, do you think?"

"Good Lord, man! You talk as if I could order one from Whiteley's. When can I get you a corpse—indeed? To-morrow—in a week—a month—a year—never. The last-mentioned date I consider the most likely. I will do what I can, that is all I can say; but how I am to go to work, upon my word, I haven't the faintest idea."

"You are an awfully clever chap, Guy."

"None of your blarney. I won't have it! I am the absolute fool, but I am still sane enough to know it."

"Very well, I'll acknowledge that you are a fool and I only wish there were more like you," said Cyril, clapping his friend affectionately on the back.

"By the way," he added, turning away as if in search of a match and trying to speak as carelessly as possible, "How is Anita?"

For a moment Guy did not answer and Cyril stood fumbling with the matches fearful of the effect of the question. He was still doubtful how far his friend had receded from his former position and was much relieved when Guy finally answered in a very subdued voice:

"She is pretty well—but—" He hesitated.

Cyril turned quickly round. He noticed that Guy's face had lengthened perceptibly and that he toyed nervously with his eye-glass.

"What is the matter?" he inquired anxiously.

"The fact is," replied Campbell, speaking slowly and carefully avoiding the other's eye, "I think it is possible that she misses you."

Cyril's heart gave a sudden jump.

"I can hardly believe it," he managed to stutter.

"Of course, Miss Trevor may be mistaken. It was her idea, not mine, that Ani—Lady Wilmersley I mean—is worrying over your absence. But whatever the cause, the fact remains that she has changed very much. She is no longer frank and cordial in her manner either to Miss Trevor or myself. It seems almost as if she regarded us both with suspicion, though what she can possibly suspect us of, I can't for the life of me imagine. That day at lunch she was gay as a child, but now she is never anything but sad and preoccupied."

"Perhaps she is beginning to remember the past," suggested Cyril.

"How can I tell? Miss Trevor and I have tried everything we could think of to induce her to confide in us, but she won't. Possibly you might be more successful—" An involuntary sigh escaped Campbell. "I am sorry now that I prevented you from seeing her. Mind you, I still think it wiser not to do so, but I ought to have left you free to use your own judgment. The number of her sitting-room is 62, on the second floor and, for some reason or other, she insists on being left there alone every afternoon from three to four. Now I have told you all I know of the situation and you must handle it as you think best."