“It was poison—why not?” she answered. ‘That I do not yet know. It’s not you—not a bit. just furtive meetings. "It is open," replied the lady, rushing towards it, and springing through the outlet. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. 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. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. E.
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