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. Annabel laughed a little uneasily. “Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. “I can’t endure it,” she said. I’ve made up my mind. What she had termed illuminative now appeared to be only another phase of the mystery which enveloped the child. She snapped out of her blissful state and looked at him squarely in the eyes. “These two haven’t been lovers for a long time.
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