"Comfort yourself, my charmer," said Mr. He had, for the most part, been correct. "How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. 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. ToC Mrs. Then he did give way a bit. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune.
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