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. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. “You are wrong! I did not think you thought such things. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little. As for me, I look twice at it.
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