“I can’t take the responsibility, Allan, of telling you that. To be plainer still, I can’t feel confident of the soundness of any advice I may give you in—in our present position toward each other. All I am sure of is that I cannot possibly be wrong in entreating you to do two things.”
“What are they?”
“If you speak to Major Milroy, pray remember the caution I have given you! Pray think of what you say before you say it!”
“I’ll think, never fear! What next?”
“Before you take any serious step in this matter, write and tell Mr. Brock. Will you promise me to do that?”
“With all my heart. Anything more?”
“Nothing more. I have said my last words.”
Allan led the way to the door. “Come into my room,” he said, “and I’ll give you a cigar. The servants will be in here directly to clear away, and I want to go on talking about Miss Gwilt.”
“Don’t wait for me,” said Midwinter; “I’ll follow you in a minute or two.”
He remained seated until Allan had closed the door, then rose, and took from a corner of the room, where it lay hidden behind one of the curtains, a knapsack ready packed for traveling. As he stood at the window thinking, with the knapsack in his hand, a strangely old, care-worn look stole over his face: he seemed to lose the last of his youth in an instant.