Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. Darkness closed in on them as the officers stepped inside the musty interior. 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. Sheppard, somewhat alarmed by this preamble. “Kindly explain it to me. "I couldn't bear to see you in it. How can I tell you all I feel? I love you beyond measure. Have you been away from Morningside Park?” “I’m not interrupting you?” “You are. “That’s exhilarating,” said Ann Veronica.
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