“Lucy, that’s horrible. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. 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. “He wants me to have dinner at his parent’s house tonight,” still looking at a series of spots on the carpeting.
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