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. The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. Tom swore he hadn't set eyes on him since the trial. ” “But Italy—” “Italy’s for a good girl,” he said, and laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. For awhile he watched the revolving light on Copeley's.
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