"No longer than she wishes to. She could be moved to-morrow, if necessary, but I advise waiting till the day after." "You are sure it won't hurt her?" insisted Cyril anxiously. "Quite. In fact, the sooner Lady Wilmersley resumes her normal life the better." "How soon will I be able to talk freely to her?" Cyril asked. "That depends largely on how she progresses, but not before a month at the earliest. By the way, Lord Wilmersley, I want you to take charge of Lady Wilmersley's bag. The contents were too valuable to be left about; so after taking out her toilet articles, the nurse brought it to me." "Ah! and--and what was in the bag?" asked Cyril fearfully. "Lady Wilmersley's jewels, of course." Jewels! This was terrible. If they were those belonging to his cousin, their description had been published in every paper in the kingdom. It was a miracle that Smith had not recognised them. "Of course," Cyril managed to stammer. The doctor went to a safe and taking out a cheap, black bag handed it to Cyril. "I should like you, please, to see if they are all there," he said. "That isn't the least necessary," Cyril hastened to assure him. "You would greatly oblige me by doing so." "I'm quite sure they are all right; besides if any are missing, they were probably stolen in Paris," said Cyril. "But I insist." Stuart-Smith was nothing if not persistent. His keen eyes had noted Cyril's agitation and his reluctance to open the bag made the doctor all the more determined to force him to do so. But Cyril was too quick for him. Seizing the bag, he made for the door. "I'll come back to-morrow," he cried over his shoulder, as he hurried unceremoniously out of the room and out of the house. A disreputable-looking man stood at the door of his waiting taxi and obsequiously opened it. Shouting his address to the driver, Cyril flung himself into the car and waved the beggar impatiently away. No sooner were they in motion than Cyril hastened to open the bag. A brown paper parcel lay at the bottom of it. He undid the string with trembling fingers. Yes, it was as he feared--a part, if not all, of the Wilmersley jewels lay before him. "Give me a penny, for the love of Gawd," begged a hoarse voice at his elbow. The beggar was still clinging to the step and his villainous face was within a foot of the jewels. Cyril felt himself grow cold with apprehension. The fellow knew who he was, and followed him. He was a detective! "A gen'lman like you could well spare a poor man a penny," the fellow whined, but there was a note of menace in his voice. Cyril tried to get a good look at him, but the light was too dim for him to distinguish his features clearly. Hastily covering the jewels, Cyril thrust a coin into the grimy hand. "Go!" he commanded, "go, or I'll call the police." The man sank out of sight. "My poor little girl, my poor little girl," murmured Cyril disconsolately, as he glanced once more at the incriminating jewels. CHAPTER X