‘Melusine…Melusine. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, now. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. 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. "Have you never an out-o-the-vay corner, into vich you could shtow these troublesome warmint?" observed Abraham. ‘But of course.
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