"Now our work is done," cried Rycroft, "and Her Majesty's mail does the rest. By the way, I cabled a brilliant report an hour back. Grayleigh seemed anxious. There have been ominous reports in some of the London papers." "This will set matters right," said Ogilvie. "Put it in an envelope. If I sail to-morrow, I may as well take it myself." "Her Majesty's mail would be best," answered Rycroft. "You can see Grayleigh almost as soon as he gets the report. Remember, I am responsible for it as well as you, and it would be best for it to go in the ordinary way." As he spoke, he stretched out his hand, took the document and folded it up. Just at this moment there came a tap at the door. Rycroft cried, "Come in," and a messenger entered with a cablegram. "For Mr. Ogilvie," he said. "From Grayleigh, of course," said Rycroft, "how impatient he gets! Wait outside," he continued to the messenger. The man withdrew, and Ogilvie slowly opened the telegram. Rycroft watched him as he read. He read slowly, and with no apparent change of feature. The message was short, but when his eyes had travelled to the end, he read from the beginning right through again. Then, without the slightest warning, and without even uttering a groan, the flimsy paper fluttered from his hand, he tumbled forward, and lay in an unconscious heap on the floor. Rycroft ran to him. He took a certain interest in Ogilvie, but above all things on earth at that moment he wanted to get the document which contained the false report safely into the post. Before he attempted to restore the stricken man, he took up the cablegram and read the contents. It ran as follows:-- _"Sibyl has had bad fall from pony. Case hopeless. Come home at once."_ "So Sibyl, whoever Sibyl may be, is at the bottom of Ogilvie's fall," thought Rycroft. "Poor chap! he has got a fearful shock. Best make all safe. I must see things through." Without an instant's hesitation Rycroft took the already signed document, thrust it into an envelope, directed it in full and stamped it. Then he went to the telegraph messenger who was still waiting outside. "No answer to the cable, but take this at once to the post-office and register it," he said; "here is money--you can keep the change." The man departed on his errand, carrying the signed document. Rycroft now bent over Ogilvie. There was a slightly blue tinge round his lips, but the rest of his face was white and drawn. "Looks like death," muttered Rycroft. He unfastened Ogilvie's collar and thrust his hand beneath his shirt. He felt the faint, very faint beat of the heart. "Still living," he murmured, with a sigh of relief. He applied the usual restoratives. In a few moments Ogilvie opened his eyes. "What has happened?" he said, looking round him in a dazed way. "Oh, I remember, I had a message from London." "Yes, old fellow, don't speak for a moment." "I must get back at once; the child----" "All right, you shall go in the _Sahara_ to-morrow."