Cyril sank wearily into a chair. The interview had been a great strain, and yet he felt that in a way it had been a relief also. He flattered himself that he had played his cards rather adroitly. For now that he had found out exactly how much the police knew, he might possibly circumvent them. Of course, it was merely a question of days, perhaps even of hours, before Griggs would discover that the girl was not his wife; for the Inspector was nothing if not thorough and if he once began searching Newhaven for evidence of her stay there, Cyril was sure that it would not take him long to establish her identity. Oh! If he only had Griggs fighting on his side, instead of the little pompous fool of a Judson! By the way, what could have become of Judson? It was now two full days since he had left Geralton. He certainly ought to have reported himself long before this. Well, it made no difference one way or the other. He was a negligible quantity. Cyril had no time to think of him now. His immediate concern was to find a way by which Priscilla could be surreptitiously removed from the nursing home, before the police had time to collect sufficient evidence to warrant her arrest. But how was it to be done? Cyril sat for half an hour staring at the smouldering fire before he was able to hit on a plan that seemed to him at all feasible. Going to the writing-table, he rapidly covered three sheets and thrust them into an envelope. "Peter," he called. "Yes, sir," answered a sleepy voice. "You are to take this letter at half-past seven o'clock to-morrow morning to Mr. Campbell's rooms and give it into his own hands. If he is still asleep, wake him up. Do you understand?" "Yes, my lord." "Very well. You can go to bed now----" It was lucky, thought Cyril, that he had taken Guy into his confidence. He was a good chap, Guy was! How he must hate the whole business! For, notwithstanding his careless manner, he was _au fond_ a conventional soul. It was really comical to think of that impeccable person as a receiver of stolen property. What would he do with the jewels, Cyril wondered. Ah, that reminded him of the bag. He must get rid of it at once. Poking the fire into a blaze, he cautiously locked the two doors which connected his rooms with the rest of the house. Then, having assured himself that the blinds were carefully drawn and that no one was secreted about the premises, he knelt down before the empty fireplace in his bedroom and felt up the chimney. The bag was no longer there! CHAPTER XII A PERILOUS VENTURE