I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. 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. “One can talk without undertones, so to speak,” said Ramage. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. " "Most likely," observed Jonathan, with a slight sneer; "the ghost of some highwayman who has just breathed his last in Newgate, no doubt.
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