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. ‘It does not matter to me if he comes or no, madame. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. I shall quit this roof to-morrow. ” Michelle sighed. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber.
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