He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. Annabel, I was lying. 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. Sheppard. Anywhere! Moonlight and music—pleasing, you know, but quite unnecessary. But that explains everything. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing.
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