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. His foot touched the rounded edge of the starling, and glanced off, precipitating him into the water. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. He had, for the most part, been correct.
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