“I believe it is. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive. “Every one. You saw him? You have been to Remenham House?’ ‘Remenham House? I wish I’d been only to Remenham House. 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. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. "I alone am to blame. He smiled. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. She spoke slowly. He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it.
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