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. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. Anna tore it open and passed it to Courtlaw. I miss them so.
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