‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. ‘Jacques, you have been very much my friend. 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. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. I will take her back. “Her ladyship dined at home,” the man answered.
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