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“Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister. . Too close, he reasoned, for safety. ” “Do what?” “Oh!—anything. Think better of it. 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. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me. “You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered.
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