‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. ” “What?” He asked, confused. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. The Jacobite. Above this revolting spot was the female debtor's ward; below it a gloomy cell, called Tangier; and, lower still, the Stone Hold, a most terrible and noisome dungeon, situated underground, and unvisited by a single ray of daylight. 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. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon.
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