"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?"