He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. Before he re-entered the prison, he hesitated from a doubt whether he was not fearfully increasing his risk of capture; but, convinced that he had no other alternative, he went on. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. 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. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. I forget the particulars, but I know it was something very disagreeable.
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