Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. 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. “When one is happy—I don’t like to think of them. My own impression is that he already knows. Anna came back into the sitting-room with a little sigh of relief. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. The lady whose husband had been Mayor of Hartlepool looked at Anna and sniffed. We felt like thieves. She sensed that he was looking for her.
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