Their flitting hands were always touching. 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. I wondered what you could be doing and what might be happening to you. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand.
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