Running his hand hastily over it, he was startled to find it one complicated mass of bolts and bars. 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. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. He was introduced to Brendon, and a chair was brought by an attentive waiter. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered.
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