" Gently she thrust Ruth aside. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. 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. ’ ‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Miss Froxfield darkly, with a mischievous glance at her betrothed. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. ” She passed out without reply.
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