She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. For your information, it was paradise there. 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. Then for the first time she was conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation.
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