His head bent down, intent on kissing her underneath the showerhead. “I thought I saw her in town to-day,” he said. 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. It was a brief solitude, however. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right.
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