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. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. It was not a hopeful looking group. No window. If a certain kink in your sense of honour will not permit you to go to her as a lover, go to her as a comrade.
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