Suddenly the father made a cautious movement forward--something had caught his eye. It was one of these same papers, which the draught from the open window had probably, unperceived by the owner, wafted from the table to the ground, just behind the young man's chair. The father stooped; and having clutched it in his grasping hand, curiously scanned his prize; yes, it was to all appearance one of those precious things, after which his soul lusted--a monied note--a note for £20 on the London Bank in which he had so great concern. But how was this? His hand trembled as he held it for stricter examination further from his eyes. Perhaps his heart misgave him from the first. How had the boy become possessed of all this money? Ah! a new light flashed upon him, and he became deadly pale. That well practised vision, that sharp witted perception was not to be deceived. The astounding, stunning truth miraculously flashed upon his senses, that the paper he held within his grasp was no true genuine bank-note on the firm of Maynard, Trevor and Co., but that _it was forged_. One moment after, and Eugene Trevor felt a sharp nervous grasp laid upon his arm. He started violently, and the terrified ashy countenance he turned towards his father, would at once have convicted him in the eye of the beholder of any capital offence of which he might have been suspected. "Wretched boy, what have you done?" gasped the father, as with one hand maintaining his hold on the culprit's arm, with the other he held the accusing note before his shrinking eye, glaring at the same time fearfully upon him. "This--this--" in accents tremulous between rage and horror, "I know, I feel convinced, is _forged_!" The son sat pale and trembling, but attempted not a word of explanation or denial. "And the others--the same?" They were passively yielded for inspection. All--all--alike! "Do you wished to be hanged, Sir?" almost shrieked the father. "I must have money--those might have passed for such." "Might?--yes, and you might, I say, be hanged." "Well, if I were hanged, what then? Life's not worth having without money," was the dark and moody rejoinder. "And why should you ever be in want of money?" Mr. Trevor replied in a low, trembling voice. "Why? why--when I see how you serve Eustace." "Eustace!" in a tone of impatient scorn; "what's Eustace to do with you?" "Or if I could be content to live the life that Harry leads," was the sullen continuation, "I might perhaps do very well; but as I have in some degree tastes and inclinations beyond those of a groom or a jockey, I must have money somehow or another, for accidental emergencies like the present. There was nothing left for me but this," pointing to the notes, "or to blow my brains out, to which alternative I suppose I have now arrived." "Tut, tut--nonsense!" replied the agitated father; "why did you not come to me?"