Spurlock mused over the previous night. A shiver slid down inside her. Kneebone and his friends would be glad of a little refreshment. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. 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. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him.
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