“I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch. 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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