"Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning," said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. 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 went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. Kneebone. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. I’ve got too much work.
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