No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the boulevards. Sir Rowland is one of us," he added, winking at his companions, "and so was his brother-in-law, Sir Cecil Trafford. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. I just never had anything else fun to do. 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. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. "Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs.
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