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.