I think not, Annabel. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. Kneebone begged him to take the prisoner into the churchyard. It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her. 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.
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