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. Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud. No one. "My invitation did not extend to them. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. He knew very well that his muscles were flabby, and his nerve by no means what it should be.
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