"His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. He told her something about music, the great world outside. 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. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. ” He thought. “By Jove!” he broke out, “one tries to take a serious, sober view. He was not a sailor.
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