The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. He fondled her naked breasts with his fingers, then his mouth. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. 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.
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