Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he lit another candle. This time nothing should prevent him from destroying the accursed thing which stood between him and wealth; he would burn it at once--at once. With feverish eagerness he thrust his hand in his coat, then staggered and fell back white as death. _The pocket was empty. The will was not there._ "I--I am a fool!" he muttered, with a smile. "I put it in the other coat," and he snatched up the overcoat, but a glance, a touch showed him that it was not there either. Wildly, madly he searched each pocket in vain, went on his knees and felt, as if he could not trust his sight alone, every inch of the carpet; turned up the hearth-rug, almost tore up the carpet itself, shook the curtains, and still hunted and searched long after the conviction had forced itself upon his mind that in no part of the room could the thing be hidden. Then he paused, pressing his hand to his brow and biting his livid lips. Let him think--think--think! Where could it be? He had not dropped it on the stairs or in any other part of the house, for he remembered, he could swear, that he had felt the thing as he stood in the study buttoning up his overcoat. If not in the house, where then? Throwing aside all caution in his excitement, he unfastened the window, and, candle in hand, examined the grand terrace, traced every step which he had taken across the lawn--and all to no purpose. "It is lying in the road," he muttered, the sweat dropping from his face. "Heaven! lying glaring there, for any country clown to pick up and ruin me. I must--I will find it! Brandy--I must have some brandy--this--this is maddening me!" And indeed he seemed mad, for though he knew he had not passed it, he went back, still peering on the ground, the candle held above his head. Suddenly he stumbled up against some object, and, looking up, saw the tall figure of a man standing right in his path. With a wolfish cry of mingled fear and rage, he dropped the candle and sprang on to him. "You--you thief!" he cried, hoarsely; "give it to me--give it me!" The man made an effort to unlock the mad grasp of the hands round his throat, then scientifically and coolly knocked his assailant down, and, holding him down writhing, struck a match. Gasping and foaming, Stephen looked up and saw that it was Jack Newcombe--Jack Newcombe regarding him with cool, contemptuous surprise and suspicion. "Well," he said contemptuously, "so it's you! Are you out of your mind?" and he flung the match away and allowed Stephen to rise. Trembling and struggling for composure, Stephen brushed the dust from his black coat and stood rubbing his chest, for Jack's blow had been straight from the shoulder. "What have you got to say for yourself?" said Jack, sternly. "I asked you if you had gone mad. What are you doing here with a candle, and behaving like a lunatic?" Stephen made a mighty effort for composure, and a ghastly smile struggled to his face.