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. He suddenly became eloquent and plausible. “Don’t be a hypocrite. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. ” “I am glad that you have a reasonable excuse for not having been to see me,” she said good-humouredly. And there's your liver. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. “I can’t conceive what you want.
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