It was Annabel who caught at the paper. "Hold!" cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; "they are nothing to me. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. She remembered the doctor's warning that the real battle would begin when the patient recovered consciousness. 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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