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. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. “Did she? I’m sorry, Mike. If you had not brought your companion here, it would not have happened. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. Some of these persons were examining the spot where the spike had been cut off; others the spike itself, now considered a remarkable object; and all were marvelling how Jack could have possibly squeezed himself through such a narrow aperture, until it was explained to them by Mr. Solomon Smith received something very like a rebuff. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her.
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