‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. 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. "There's another instance of your wilfulness and want of taste. ‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do.
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