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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. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband? His luck was in. The entrance was barred against them; and they had the additional mortification of hearing Sheppard's loud laughter at their discomfiture. Blueskin therefore had nothing to stop him. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression.
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