On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. Michelle was laid onto the back seat, her head cradled in Lucy’s lap. One is always familiar with the business of one’s neighbours. 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 has become a part of the order of my life.
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