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‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. 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. "You depart for Lancashire to-morrow. ‘Very well, never mind. Take me to the Stone Room.
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