The turn which this conversation had taken and the unexpected nature of the disclosures which Mr. Manners had made were, indeed, surprises for which Mark Inglefield could not possibly have been prepared. He had entered the house in a condition of mind which may be designated beatific. All his plans had prospered, and he had expected to hear from Mr. Manners a thoroughly satisfactory account of the interview between his patron and Mr. Hollingworth. The celebration of the contemplated union with Miss Hollingworth would have been the crowning triumph of all his scheming. From the day when he first instilled into Mr. Manners's ears the poisoned insinuations which were to effect the separation of father and son, success had attended him. Wary, cunning, and most painstaking in the early years of his association with Mr. Manners, he believed that he had so firmly established his position that there was no possibility of his being shaken from it. Gradually he had allowed himself to be lulled into a state of perfect security--to such an extent, indeed, that he no longer took pains to make himself more than ordinarily agreeable to the man upon whose word his future prospects depended. But now, in this startling manner, and at this unexpected time, the storm he had not foreseen burst upon him. He did not pause to consider that the Nemesis which threatened him was the outcome of his own evil, and that it sometimes happens that wrong-doers themselves forge bolts which destroy them. The idea of anything like justice or Providence did not occur to him. He was angry, but his conscience was not disturbed. His inherent and perfect selfishness led him straight to one incontrovertible view of the difficulty in which he found himself. He had enemies who, nettled and wroth at his approaching triumph, had suddenly banded themselves together for the purpose of trampling him in the dust. It was, therefore, a battle to the death between him and them, and, recognizing that this was the supreme moment in his career, he determined to stop at nothing which would avert defeat. In the heart of this determination there lurked a ruthlessness of spirit which would lead him to any extreme of crime and duplicity. For the unhappy girl whom he had brought to shame and ruin he felt not one spark of compassion; his own safety was his only consideration. As for Kingsley and Nansie, if a wish of his could have destroyed them it would have been breathed without compunction.

Between Mr. Manners's last words and his response there was not a moment's pause. Swift as lightning's flash his resolution was formed.

"I scarcely know, sir," he said, "how to convince you that I have no other desire than to satisfy you. I can only repeat what I have endeavored already to make clear, that you shall have plain and honest answers to everything you ask of me. But for all that, you must make some allowance for my natural feelings of surprise and indignation, that, after all these years, I find my integrity and honor doubted, and matters suddenly and strangely revived which I thought were settled long ago."

"I will make every reasonable allowance," said Mr. Manners. "At present, so far as you are concerned, I am animated by no other spirit than that of being strictly just towards you--even though finding that through some mischance I have drifted into error, I shall be compelled to deprive him who is nearest to my blood of the chief portion of his patrimony. I am ready to take upon myself the whole of the blame; but I must be satisfied that I have not been wilfully deceived."

"Deceived by whom, sir? By me?"

"By you," replied Mr. Manners, calmly. "You were the first to impart to me information concerning the lady my son Kingsley married. Your reports aggravated the feelings I entertained towards her because of the disappointment I experienced by my son marrying without my consent and approval. No other person spoke to me of her but yourself, nor did I seek information elsewhere. You cannot fail to remember the nature of the charges you brought against her."

"That is asking me a great deal," said Inglefield. "Do you expect me to remember faithfully every trifling detail of circumstances which I have not thought of for a long number of years?"

"I do not," said Mr. Manners, observing with displeasure that Mark Inglefield continued to fence with the most important issues of the conversation; "but the principal of them cannot have escaped your memory."

"Being, as it seems to me, upon my trial--" said Inglefield, and paused, for the purpose of ascertaining whether this statement was in consonance with Mr. Manners's intention.

Mr. Manners nodded, and said:

"Yes, Inglefield. You may consider that to some extent you are upon your trial."

"That being the case, sir, it strikes me that you have already formed a judgment, without hearing what I may have to say."

"I should be sorry to think so. Tell me in what way you suppose I have done this."

"You speak of the person your son married as a lady."

"Well?"

"That is not how I should describe her."

"Your remark tallies with what you said against her many years ago. But I shall continue to speak of her and to regard her as a lady until I have evidence to the contrary."

"Have you seen her, then, lately," asked Inglefield, "as well as the scoundrel who has brought these monstrous charges against me?"

"You are overtaxing my patience, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners. "You assert that you are anxious to satisfy me upon certain points which I consider vital, and yet you take advantage of any slight word or remark which offers the opportunity of evasion. If this opinion is unpalatable to you, thank yourself for it. I have seen the lady of whom we are speaking but once in my life, and on the occasion she visited me I was surprised at the impression she produced upon me. I expected to see a woman whose appearance would have justified the opinion I had formed of her through your statements. I saw, on the contrary, a lady of gentle manners, a lady of culture and refinement, who received with dignity and respect the reproachful words I addressed to her. She needed to be accomplished, indeed, in duplicity and artfulness to have so successfully simulated the air of modesty and gentleness which distinguished her."

"You are not versed in the ways of such women, sir," said Inglefield. "They can deceive the cleverest of men."

"Possibly. I am waiting to ascertain whether I have been so deceived. At present, everything is in her favor. You informed me that she was a vulgar, showy person whose appearance in good society would bring ridicule upon my son."

"That is the opinion I formed of her, sir, from more complete evidence than you are supplied with."

"I understood that you were very well acquainted with her; intimately, I think, you said."

"I knew her very well, sir."

"Intimately? You told me so at the time."

"Yes, sir, intimately," replied Inglefield, inwardly cursing his patron's faithful memory.

"I am glad to be corroborated; it shows that you are speaking frankly. You related to me a story of the arts she used to entangle you, of your seeing through them, and escaping. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"As she could not ensnare you, she turned to Kingsley, and got him into her toils. Correct me if I am wrong in my memory of these matters."

"I cannot say you are wrong, sir, but I will not pledge myself to the precise words you are using."

"I do not ask you to do so. So long as we are agreed upon the general view I shall be satisfied. For my own part, I may say, Inglefield, that I am quite certain I am putting it fairly. Most distinctly did you call her an adventuress."

"Was she not one, sir, in entangling your son because he had a wealthy father?"

"If that was her motive, yes, she was an adventuress; but it scarcely accords with the character of an adventuress that she should be content with making but one appeal to the man upon whose money she had designs."

"You have a very positive and decided manner, sir, from which she might naturally infer that further attempts would be useless."

"I cannot agree with you. Such a woman as you described would not so easily relinquish her designs. It was all she had to depend upon. Failing success, a life of poverty was before her. She certainly would have tried again."

"Surely you would not make me accountable for her actions, sir?"

"No; I am simply arguing the question logically--not as regards you, but as regards her. At the time she made her modest appeal my judgment was clouded with passion; it is now clear, and the course I took does not commend itself to me. Her uncle also made an appeal to me--only one. He had fallen into sudden misfortune; on the day before he came to me he had been burned out, and was not insured."

"A trumped-up story, I have no doubt, sir."

"Not so. A true story, as I saw in the papers afterwards. Neither in his manners was there anything vulgar or objectionable. Although a poor man, he was well educated, and spoke with discretion and intelligence. Had he appealed to me for a large sum of money I might have had reasonable grounds for suspicion; but all he asked for was either five or ten pounds, and that was to send to my son, who was in a state of poverty abroad. I declare," said Mr. Manners, rising, and pacing the room in agitation, "now that I am opening my mind upon these matters, now that I hear myself speaking of them, I cannot justify my conduct. It was monstrous, monstrous. Had I given them a thousand times as much as they asked for I should not have missed it. My heart must have been made of stone!"

"Do not distress yourself, sir," said Inglefield, with a fawning attempt at sympathy. "You could not have acted otherwise."

"I could. I could have acted both justly and mercifully, and so have lightened their lot. I drove the uncle away from the house, and he, too, never made another appeal to me. Their conduct from first to last was dignified and independent; mine was dastardly. You see how little disposed I am to spare myself. Let us put an end to this conversation; I am afraid to trust myself further."

Mark Inglefield was too discreet to offer any opposition, and too glad to escape to put into operation the plans he had formed. With a gentle "Good-night, sir," he was about to leave the room, when Mr. Manners said:

"Do not forget that we have to inquire into the treacherous story related to me by Mr. Parkinson. You will be ready to accompany me at eleven o'clock in the morning."

"I shall be quite ready," said Mark Inglefield. And thus the interview terminated.