. ’ ‘Now then, missie,’ began the sergeant severely, ‘just you hand over that dagger. 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. He lost control of the machine. The release was so great that she felt tears spring from her eyes. Drummond nodded. She could feel her face turning beet red.
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