These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. Ruth did not resent the use of her mind and body in this tale of adventure. 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 are unjust and quixotic, Anna, you have no right to treat any one as you are treating me. Where were you married?” “At the English Embassy in Paris. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible.
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