Kneebone invariably takes part with me, when any trifling misunderstanding arises between us. "My heart," rejoined Thames, firmly; "which now tells me I am in the presence of his murderer. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. All these things spoke of peace;—but there are seasons when the pleasantest external influences have a depressing effect on the mind, by painfully recalling past happiness.
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