I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. They were silent for a time. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. "What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window. But we must not anticipate the course of events.
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