They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight. But I’m going to-day. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again. " He offered cigars, and Ruth got up. “No, he grabbed my hand. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. 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 Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. ‘You have the means to take up your rightful place.
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