" "Perhaps he is from Lord Derwentwater, or Mr. ” “Isn’t it. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped. 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. The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms. " "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other.
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