his one great need is a companion of his own age on whom he can rely.
The time has come, sir, to decide whether I am to be that companion or
not. After all you have heard of Ozias Midwinter, tell me plainly, will
you trust him to be Allan Armadale's friend?"

Mr. Brock met that fearlessly frank question by a fearless frankness on
his side.

"I believe you love Allan," he said, "and I believe you have spoken the
truth. A man who has produced that impression on me is a man whom I am
bound to trust. I trust you."

Midwinter started to his feet, his dark face flushing deep; his eyes
fixed brightly and steadily, at last, on the rector's face. "A light!"
he exclaimed, tearing the pages of his father's letter, one by one, from
the fastening that held them. "Let us destroy the last link that holds
us to the horrible past! Let us see this confession a heap of ashes
before we part!"

"Wait!" said Mr. Brock. "Before you burn it, there is a reason for
looking at it once more."

The parted leaves of the manuscript dropped from Midwinter's hands. Mr.
Brock took them up, and sorted them carefully until he found the last
page.

"I view your father's superstition as you view it," said the rector.
"But there is a warning given you here, which you will do well (for
Allan's sake and for your own sake) not to neglect. The last link with
the past will not be destroyed when you have burned these pages. One of
the actors in this story of treachery and murder is not dead yet. Read
those words."

He pushed the page across the table, with his finger on one sentence.
Midwinter's agitation misled him. He mistook the indication, and read,
"Avoid the widow of the man I killed, if the widow still lives."

"Not that sentence," said the rector. "The next."

Midwinter read it: "Avoid the maid whose wicked hand smoothed the way to
the marriage, if the maid is still in her service."

"The maid and the mistress parted," said Mr. Brock, "at the time of
the mistress's marriage. The maid and the mistress met again at Mrs.
Armadale's residence in Somersetshire last year. I myself met the
woman in the village, and I myself know that her visit hastened Mrs.
Armadale's death. Wait a little, and compose yourself; I see I have
startled you."

He waited as he was bid, his color fading away to a gray paleness and
the light in his clear brown eyes dying out slowly. What the rector had
said had produced no transient impression on him; there was more than