The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. " "I can't! I can't—not now!" "Bat!—can't you see that she's the kind who would understand and forgive? She loves you. before them soldiers. 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 have not forgotten——” “I have forgotten nothing?” he answered, enigmatically.
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