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“But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. F. 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. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. ” He called for a hansom. She had not thought anything could equal her despair at that moment. “Since last night. "There won't be much left for you," he said.
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