A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. I do not think that I have the Bohemian spirit at all. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. This year—I’ve got it badly. 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.
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