Then to the Dean's Head, in St. 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. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. I could not hear his heart beat. I owed his father a grudge: that I settled long ago. “John,” she said, “I can spare you that question. Nothing like the direct approach, she thought. I have been around them for long enough.
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