He glanced at the ruins of his High Priestess. 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. It was all highly intriguing. She had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet. She struggled against it quite uselessly. I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily. As far as I can, I belong to them all.
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