Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. She wants that and needs it more than anything else in the world. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. “I’m covered.
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