“I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. 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. Sydney was watching her eagerly. He was fast rising to an eminence that no one of his nefarious profession ever reached before him, nor, it is to be hoped, will ever reach again. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked.
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