‘And then vanished into thin air,’ rejoined Hilary on a sardonic note. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. She laughed. Wood heard the cry. ‘This is insupportable. ” “Oh!” said Ann Veronica. 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. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland.
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