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. On the cords being removed, he made a desperate spring at Wild, bore him to the ground, clutched at his throat, and would, infallibly, have strangled him, if the keepers had not all thrown themselves upon him, and by main force torn him off. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. ‘Knew you had the lad with you, and thought you were merely delayed. You will never be happy with this hanging over you. As a matter of fact, I had never spoken to him before in my life. “Did your foster dads ever try to molest you?” “Of course they did, John. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. “It was the night you left Paris. Just as he reached them, the Comte de St Erme drew Valade a little apart and began to converse with him in rapid French. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading.
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