‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame. What he wanted desperately was to be alone. 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. "While I live you are safe," rejoined Trenchard; "after my death I can answer for nothing. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. I am out of your life forever, never having been in it. Before midnight, your nephew shall be safe beneath the hatches of the Zeeslang.
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