Kneebone's door, you begged me to await your return here, assuring me you would not detain me five minutes. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. “YOU had to come in. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. "Never mind," replied the tapstress. You've a good deal to go through to-night. I believe that the common report was that you and your sister had come to Paris to study painting. 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. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. " "Never fear, Sir," replied Marvel.
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