I cannot protect you. " "I will go, if you will consent to meet me at midnight near the old house in Wych Street," replied Jack. Though they do, in secret, I believe. I don’t know. She cried out with the pain of it. 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. The doors were closed and barricaded, and the mob threatened to burst them open if Jack was not delivered to them. Then he did give way a bit. We’re regarded as inflammable litter that mustn’t be left about. Their colloquy was ended abruptly by the apparition of Miss Klegg at the further door.
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