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. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield. Prudence twinkled at them, and reached out to pat Melusine’s hand. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers.
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