"You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual. 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. At the eastern gate of the churchyard stood the carriage with the steps lowered. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai.
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