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. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. Apparently he did not see his recent companions. Jonathan had to feel his way. Is it so, Annabel?” “I did not know,” she faltered, “anything about you.
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