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. He spoke in quick nervous sentences. But his own situation was too perilous to admit of his rendering any assistance to the ill-fated waterman. The very sight of these impediments, would have appalled a less courageous spirit than Sheppard's—but nothing could daunt him. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. “Dear husband,” she murmured. Pitt endeavoured to dissuade him from attending in person, representing the great risk he would incur from the mob, which was certain to be assembled. .
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