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 was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. There was now no honest way of warning Taber that the net had been drawn.
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