“Where should we go?” Knowing that they would be dogged wherever they went, she volunteered, “Let’s go to the Big Apple. And, mind, it's for his sister, Lady Trafford. 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. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. As he crossed the cellar, he passed so near to Jack who had concealed himself behind a piece of furniture that he almost touched him.
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