She flew up the covered stairs and knocked upon his door. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. 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. ‘That’s just it. I never saw a man who wasn't. Could she understand what she was talking about? Luckily it was a second-class carriage and the ordinary fellowtravellers were not there. .
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