And no ill-chances. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. She felt it would save explanations if she did not state she had left her home and was looking for employment. 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. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not.
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