’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic. 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. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. ‘But Gérard—if you mean the fellow Alderley who was making eyes at Yolande—is not here. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. “Damned Rascal!” he said.
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