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. "I must see him to-night. "Mine died while I was over here. Don’t leave me in this beastly thing. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. " "Ah, yes. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. He not only failed in making any impression, but seemed to increase the difficulties, for after an hour's toil he had broken the nail and slightly bent the iron bar. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland.
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