The girl’s gaze met his in interested inquiry. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. If it were but the question of his reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple. Believe me, Anna. 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. Leonardo had not taught her to do so. Kneebone, on his return from Manchester.
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