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. To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes. He was in the house with his mother. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship. Presently he heard her voice. You can’t go. ’ ‘Lord,’ Gerald murmured, awed more by the outspokenness of his hostess than by what she had said.
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