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. O'Higgins was to keep track of you until I believed you had had enough punishment. Melusine was unable to repulse him—even had she tried. He seemed to have shrunken in his seat. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. I do like to see old friends back here.
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