‘What started you off, you madman,’ Roding told him frankly, as he set about tying his handkerchief around the wound, ‘was being born at all. 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 had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. "Coupling their presence with Jack's speech, I couldn't help fearing some mischief might ensue.
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