Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip. 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. She may be an infuriating little devil, but she is far from stupid. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. This is retribution. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. “I’m not a good woman. “You met no one upon the stairs, or saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Anna answered firmly. ‘Well?’ he uttered between heavy breaths. He had forgiven everybody. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Bought the freedom of a sing-song girl; and all the while you knew you'd have to tote the girl back. The other lay unconscious in a heap.
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