Kneebone cordially on the shoulder, and began to laugh as heartily as any of them. “Well, hello there. ” “Quite true,” she answered briskly, “and thanks to you I have succeeded. . “Which is Mr. 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 motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. He had just arrived from Manchester, whence he had been summoned by that treacherous thief-taker. Promise me.
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