He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Give up your lonely hours of work here. ‘It does not seem to me that you can be an emissary for that pig. The boy doesn't know it, but I dug into his trunk for something to identify him and stumbled upon some manuscripts. 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. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. What befell Jack Sheppard in the Turner's House 408 XXII.
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