"Why, that's what it put me in mind of; very forcibly, too," returned Captain Lennox. "I said so to Philip Cleeve." Both of them turned their eyes on Philip as the Captain spoke. To Ella it seemed that Philip was strangely restless and excited to-night. His eyes sparkled and his face looked flushed. "Foolish boy! he has been drinking too much wine," was her thought; and Mr. Bootle was evidently of the same opinion. But they were mistaken. Philip had been in the same restless and excited mood yesterday, and would be again to-morrow. Captain Lennox was probably the only person present who could have guessed at the real cause of it. "I wonder," resumed Ella, "whether the Doctor will ever find his snuffbox again?" "Ah, that's doubtful," said the Captain, gravely shaking his head. "Not if it was taken by an ordinary thief." "What do you mean, Captain Lennox?" "If a common thief stole the box, it would probably be melted down as soon afterwards as might be. If--if anybody else took it, he would no doubt sell it for what he could get for it; and the box, in that case, may some day or other turn up again." "But why should one not an ordinary thief take it?" A smile crossed the Captain's lips at the question, as he looked down at Miss Winter. "To make money of it, of course," he said, dropping his voice. "A gentleman hard-up has done as much before, and may do as much again." Ella looked at the speaker: his tone was peculiar, and she thought he meant it to be. But he moved away, and said no more. The party broke up early, remembering Lady Cleeve's delicate health. Miss Winter offered a seat in her carriage to the Vicar, for whom a fly was waiting. He preferred the carriage, and dismissed the fly. After his return home, he nodded a little while in his study over his cosey bit of fire; but he felt dead sleepy, and soon went up to bed. The Reverend Francis Kettle had a methodical habit of emptying his pockets before he began to undress, and laying out their contents on a low chest of drawers that stood by his bedside. This he proceeded to do as usual. His card-case, his pencil-case, his gold toothpick, and his bunch of keys were all put down in due order, but when he came to feel for the most important item of all, his purse, or small money-case, made of Russian leather, it was nowhere to be found. In something of a quandary the Vicar took his candle and went downstairs. Could he have left it on his study-table in a fit of absent-mindedness, or had it fallen out of his pocket while he dropped into that half-doze in his easy-chair?