Beyond that everything was nebulous. It’s well hidden, miss. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. ‘You do not use your head, Emile,’ she said flatly. You have misunderstood. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. 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. "When did you see him, my love?" "A short time ago," replied the housekeeper, unsuspiciously. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. Ruth could not be told now. They will be safe.
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