"I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland," answered the thief-taker, smiling significantly. But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. It was perfectly logical. He seemed to be. 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. ‘And since the entire company and Pottiswick himself were unable to find hide nor hair of the infernal French female—’ ‘English, Hilary,’ Gerald reminded him. 1. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood.
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