"England or France, London or Paris, it's all one to me, so I've you to command me. ” “I am really curious,” she persisted. His tone changed, becoming a little more moderate. 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. "You are all right?"—anxiously. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. “I suppose there’s no way of getting a decent income—independently.
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