or fire; but I ed, and in no danger of s Mr. Rocer: I made  me. .  speaking,  smiling,  seeming to recognise in me a  ed me to his side.

    “ruder.

    “My name is Briggs, a solicitor of—Street, London.”

    “And you  on me a wife?”

    “I ence, sir, w.”

    “Favour me  of age, her place of abode.”

    “Certainly.” Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from , and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:—

    “‘I affirm and can prove t on tober A.D.—(a date of fifteen years back), Edy of —, and of Ferndean Manor, in—so my sister, Bertoinetta Mason, daug, and of Antoinetta —coer of t c is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason.’”

    “t—if a genuine document—may prove I  it does not prove t tioned till living.”

    “Surned the lawyer.

    “how do you know?”

    “I ness to t, imony even you, sir, rovert.”

    “Produce o hell.”

    “I ep forward.”

    Mr. Rocer, on  eetoo, a sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to  t of fury or despair run tranger, or’s s urned and glared at en said,  aed rong arm—ruck Mason, das Mason sly, “Good God!” Contempt fell cool on Mr. Rocer—  up:  o say?”

    An inaudible reply escaped Mason’s we lips.

    “t if you cannot ansinctly. I again demand, w o say?”

    “Sir—sir,” interrupted t forget you are in a sacred place.” tly, “Are you aleman’s ill living?”

    “Courage,” urged t.”

    “S ticulate tones: “I saw  April. I am her.”

    “At ted t in ter at thornfield hall.”

    I saort Mr.