“It is true. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. “Please let me drive you home. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn. 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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