Left alone, Philip remained for some moments struggling with his wrath and agony. He then seized his hat, which he had thrown off on entering-- pressed it over his brows--turned to quit the shop--when his eye fell upon the till. Plaskwith had left it open, and the gleam of the coin struck his gaze--that deadly smile of the arch tempter. Intellect, reason, conscience--all, in that instant, were confusion and chaos. He cast a hurried glance round the solitary and darkening room--plunged his hand into the drawer, clutched he knew not what--silver or gold, as it came uppermost--and burst into a loud and bitter laugh. The laugh itself startled him--it did not sound like his own. His face fell, and his knees knocked together--his hair bristled--he felt as if the very fiend had uttered that yell of joy over a fallen soul. "No--no--no!" he muttered; "no, my mother,--not even for thee!" And, dashing the money to the ground, he fled, like a maniac, from the house. At a later hour that same evening, Mr. Robert Beaufort returned from his country mansion to Berkeley Square. He found his wife very uneasy and nervous about the non-appearance of their only son. Arthur had sent home his groom and horses about seven o'clock, with a hurried scroll, written in pencil on a blank page torn from his pocket-book, and containing only these words,-- "Don't wait dinner for me--I may not be home for some hours. I have met with a melancholy adventure. You will approve what I have done when we meet."