His grandson, or, as Philip Clifdon had been taught to believe himself, his son, did not follow, but falling back in his chair, and planting his feet upon the broad hearth, abandoned himself to vague and delicious revery. The constraint which the presence of Mordaunt had imposed, wore off with his disappearance, until Philip, disturbed by the loud voices and ringing laughter of those around, roused himself, and addressed a few words to him who has been announced as the former clown of the little company. Clifdon had disappeared. In the course of conversation with this man, young Clifdon, or rather Mordaunt, for he bore the name of his supposed parent, had occasion to draw forth and open his pen-knife. A singular dilation of the eye, a sudden flush upon the countenance of his companion, arrested his attention, but was forgotten, as the ex-clown, recovering his composure, quietly observed, “That is a curious blade—will you let me examine it?” Young Mordaunt resigned it carelessly into his hands, remarking, “It is a knife I seldom use, but having lost that I ordinarily carry, I have been obliged to bring it forward.” “It is an old-fashioned piece of work,” said Garvin, for such was his name, earnestly examining it. “I think I have seen it before.” “I value it as one that has been in my possession from my childhood,” returned Philip. “It has served me trustily.” “Here is a broken point,” said Garvin, opening a second blade. “What a pity!” “It has been broken ever since my remembrance,” returned the other. As he spoke, his companion rising, either accidentally, or, as Philip afterward suspected, from design, managed to catch with his foot the leg of a table upon which a group of his companions had arranged their smoking glasses. It was overthrown; and after the confusion this created had in a measure subsided, Mordaunt looked in vain for the author of the mischief. He had vanished, and with him the borrowed knife. “So much for my confounded carelessness,” said the youth, internally, as half vexed, half amused, he left the bar-room. “I will see to this to-morrow; but not to-night, not to-night.” And why “not to-night” might have been explained by the dreams that floated through his brain, as beneath the moon that shone brightly in the now cloudless sky, he paced to and fro upon the broad piazza of the inn. CHAPTER IV. Upon a couch, in one corner of a mean apartment, with folded arms and a countenance livid with despair, sat Edward Clifdon; and before him, with an exulting smile, stood the man who had so dexterously escaped during the confusion in the bar-room.