At eleven o'clock punctually the next morning Mark Inglefield knocked at the door of Mr. Manners's study. They were not in the habit of taking their meals together; this was the reason of their not meeting at the breakfast-table.

"Good-morning, sir," said Inglefield.

"Good-morning," said Mr. Manners.

Mark Inglefield was cheerful and composed, and Mr. Manners, gazing at him, could not help thinking that he must be mistaken in suspecting him of wrong-doing.

"Shall we start at once, sir?"

"At once."

"I have been thinking," said Mark Inglefield, "of what took place last night, and I almost fear that I laid myself open to misconstruction."

"In what way?"

"By my manner. I was nervous and agitated, and I am afraid I expressed myself badly. It was not quite unnatural. The shock of finding myself charged with a crime so vile was great. Stronger men than I would have been unnerved. Indeed, sir, I could bear anything except the loss of your esteem."

"It will soon be put to the proof, Inglefield."

"Yes, sir, and I am truly glad that I shall be brought face to face with my accusers. When the poor girl who has been wronged sees me you will be immediately undeceived. Let us go, sir."

"This," thought Mr. Manners, "is innocence; I have done Inglefield an injustice." His manner insensibly softened towards the schemer who up till now had so successfully plotted; but this more lenient mood was attributable only to his stern sense of justice. It was this which induced him to say aloud, "Inglefield, you gathered from what I said last night that it is not unlikely I may take steps to reconcile myself with my son and his wife?"

If Mark Inglefield had dared he would have denied that he had gathered any such impression, but so much now depended upon his keeping his patron in a good-humor with him that he merely said, "Yes, sir," and waited for further developments.

"Should this take place," continued Mr. Manners, "we shall both have to confess ourselves in the wrong. Your mistake may have been only an error of judgment; mine was much more serious; but that is a matter with which you have nothing to do. If Kingsley is willing, I should wish you and he to be friends."

"I am ready to do anything," said Inglefield, "to please you. But may I venture to say something?"

"Say whatever is in your mind, Inglefield."

"Nothing, believe me, sir, could be farther from my desire than that you should find yourself unable to carry out your wishes. No effort shall be wanting on my part to bring happiness to you, quite independent of any reflection that may be cast upon my truthfulness and single-mindedness in what I unhappily was compelled to take part in many years ago. I waive all selfish considerations. I feel that I am expressing myself lamely, but perhaps you understand me."

"Yes, and I appreciate your delicate position. Go on."

"Having, then, made this clear to you, having as it were consented to have a false light thrown upon my actions, you cannot doubt my sincerity when I say that you have my warmest wishes towards the success of what you desire. But this is what I wish to say, and I beg you will not misconstrue me. The new impressions you received were gained from this Mr. Parkinson, whom you so unexpectedly met at Mr. Hollingworth's house last night."

"Yes."

"Heaven forbid that I should step between father and son! The duty that I once felt devolved upon me was a most painful one, but I did it fearlessly, in the hope that the disclosures it was unhappily in my power to make might have been the means of assisting you to the accomplishment of your wishes with respect to your son. As I did my duty then, fearless of consequences, so must I do it now."

"Well, Inglefield?"

"I repeat, sir, that the new impressions you gained were gained from statements made by Mr. Parkinson. I have no hesitation--you must pardon me for being so frank--in declaring him to be a slanderer. I have no key to the mystery of the plot which, in the hands of a man less just than yourself, would almost surely have been my ruin, and I should be wanting in respect to myself were I not indignant at the monstrous charge of which it seems I stand accused, and of which I am now going with you to clear myself. That will be a simple matter, and I will pass it by. But, sir, if it is proved that Mr. Parkinson is wrong in my case, if it is proved that for some purpose of his own, and perhaps of others, he has invented an abominable story, and committed himself to abominable statements, may he not also be wrong in the statements he has made respecting persons whom, out of consideration for you, I will not name?"

"You refer to my son and his wife," said Mr. Manners. Inglefield was silent. "I can cast no blame upon you, Inglefield. I can only repeat that everything shall be put to the proof."

With this remark Inglefield was fain to be satisfied; but he inwardly congratulated himself that he had done something to throw doubt upon Mr. Parkinson's eulogies of Kingsley and Nansie.

They did not walk all the way to the east of London, but, as Mark Inglefield had done but a few short hours ago, they rode to within a quarter of a mile of Mr. Parkinson's residence, to which they then proceeded on foot. As they drew near they became aware that the neighborhood was abnormally excited. It was past twelve o'clock when they reached the street in which Mr. Parkinson resided, and this was the dinner-hour of a great many of the working men and women roundabout. The majority of these were standing in groups, talking excitedly of an event in which it was evident they were hugely interested. Mark Inglefield guessed what it was, but Mr. Manners had no clew to it. He inquired his way to Mr. Parkinson's house, and, at the moment he reached it, was confronted by Mr. Parkinson himself.

The man was in a violent state of agitation. His limbs were trembling, his features were convulsed with passion, and he gazed upon Mr. Manners without recognizing him.

"I have come," said Mr. Manners, "in accordance with my promise--"

"What promise?" cried Mr. Parkinson. "I want my daughter--my daughter!"

"It is about her I have come," said Mr. Manners, in great wonder.

"What of her?" cried Mr. Parkinson. "You have come about her? Well, where is she--where is she? But let her be careful, or I may be tempted to lay her dead at my feet!"

"I do not understand you. Do you not remember what you and I said to each other last night? I said I would see you righted. I said I would bring the man whom you accused."

"I remember, I remember," interrupted Mr. Parkinson, in a voice harsh with passion. "You made fair promises, as others have made before you! But what does it matter now? My daughter is gone--gone! Run away in the night, like a thief! She may be in the river. Better for her, a great deal better for her! Stop! Who are you?" He advanced to Mark Inglefield, and, laying his trembling hands upon him, peered into his face. "I know you, you black-hearted scoundrel! You are the man whose picture I found in my daughter's box. Give me my daughter--give me my Mary!"

Mark Inglefield shook him off, but with difficulty, and the man stood glaring at him. Already a crowd had gathered around them; the words, "black-hearted scoundrel," caused them to cast angry glances at Mark Inglefield. Mr. Manners looked in astonishment at one and another, utterly unable to comprehend the situation.

"The man is mad," said Mark Inglefield.

"Yes, I am mad," cried Mr. Parkinson, striving to escape from those who held him back from springing upon Mark Inglefield, "and therefore dangerous. What! Is a man's home to be broken up, is he to be robbed of his only child and disgraced, and is he to stand idly by when the scoundrel is before him who has worked this ruin upon him? As Heaven is my judge, I will have my revenge!"

"Come, come," said a working-man, "this violence will do no good, Parkinson. Be reasonable."

"If violence will do no good," retorted Mr. Parkinson, "still struggling, what will?"

"The truth," replied the working-man who had interposed.

"Ah, yes, the truth," said Mr. Parkinson; "and when that is told, let us have justice!"

"Spoken like a man," murmured some in the crowd.

"But what kind of justice?" demanded Mr. Parkinson. "A cold-blooded law court, with cold-blooded lawyers arguing this way and that, while those who have been brought to ruin and shame sit down with their wasted lives before them? No--not that kind of justice for me! I will have the life of the man who has cast this upon me! And that"--pointing with furious hand towards Mark Inglefield--"that is the monster I will have my justice upon, without appeal to lawyers!"

"I give you my word of honor," said Mark Inglefield, appealing to those by whom he was surrounded, and who hemmed him and Mr. Manners in, determined that they should not escape--"I give you my word of honor that I have not the least idea what this man means. I do not know him, nor any person belonging to him."

"You lie!" cried Mr. Parkinson.

"I speak the truth," said Mark Inglefield, perfectly calm. "This gentleman who has accompanied me here will testify to it. If I did not suspect that this man is not accountable for his words, I would not remain here another moment."

"But you must," said a friend of Mr. Parkinson; and, "Yes, you must, you must!" proceeded from others in the throng.

"I will," said Mark Inglefield, "because I have come here for the express purpose of unmasking a foul plot--"

"Rightly put," shouted Mr. Parkinson. "A foul plot--a foul plot! And it shall be unmasked, and the guilty shall suffer--not the innocent! For, after all, mates"--and now he, in his turn, appealed to the crowd--"what blame lies at the door of a weak, foolish girl who is led to her ruin by the lying, plausible words of gentlemen like these?"

But here the unreasoning torrent of his wrath was stemmed by many of his comrades, who said:

"None of that, Parkinson. It won't help you, and it won't help us. The gentleman speaks fair. He says he has come here to unmask a foul plot."

"That is my intention, and the intention of my friend here," said Mark Inglefield, "and, as you say, it will not help him nor any of us to be violent and abusive. Why, does it not stand to reason that we could have kept away if we had chosen? Does it not prove, coming here of our own accord as we have done, that we are of the same mind as yourselves?"

"Yes," replied one, struck, as others were, with this plain reasoning, "let us hear what this gentleman has to say."

"It is not for me," said Mark Inglefield, who, although he had won the suffrages of his audience, was not disposed to be too communicative, "to pry into any man's family affairs, but when he makes them public property and brings false accusations against the innocent, he is not justified in grumbling if he is hauled over the coals. My friend here was compelled last night to listen to charges which seemed to him to implicate me in some trouble into which Mr. Parkinson has fallen."

"How do you come to know his name?" inquired a man.

"He gave it last night to this gentleman, who communicated it to me. Besides, it has been mentioned half a dozen times by yourselves. The charges I referred to coming to my ears, it was arranged between my friend and myself that we should present ourselves here this morning for the purpose of confuting them. I suppose you don't expect anything fairer than that?"

"Nothing could be fairer."

"I am sorry to learn," continued Mark Inglefield, "that this man has been wronged, and sorry to learn that trouble has come to him through his daughter. They are both entire strangers to me. What I ask is that he bring his daughter forward now to corroborate my statement that she and I never saw each other in all our lives."

"But that," said one of Mr. Parkinson's friends, "is just what he can't do. His daughter has strangely disappeared in the night."

Mark Inglefield turned towards Mr. Manners, with a smile of incredulity on his lips.

"Our errand here seems to be wasted. Let me speak to you a moment out of hearing of these people."

The working-men moved aside to allow the two gentlemen to pass, and when they were a little apart Mark Inglefield said:

"I hope you are satisfied, sir."

"So far as you are concerned," replied Mr. Manners, "I cannot help being. But there is something still at the bottom of this that I would give much to get at the truth of."

"Why, sir," said Mark Inglefield, scornfully, "can you not see that the whole affair is trumped up?"

"No, I cannot see that. These men were not aware that we were coming here this morning, and even if they were it is not likely that they would have got up this excitement for our especial benefit."

Mark Inglefield bit his lip.

"I am not quite right, perhaps, in saying that the whole affair is trumped up, but undoubtedly it is much exaggerated, and more importance is being attached to it than it deserves. You must not mind my saying that I cannot form the same opinion of Mr. Parkinson as yourself. It seems to me that he is desirous of making capital out of his calamity. I have done all I could, have I not, to clear myself of the charge?"

"I do not see that you could have done more."

"There is nothing more to stop for, then. Shall we go?"

"Not yet. You may, if you wish, but I shall remain to make inquiries."

"I will remain with you, sir, of course. It would not be safe to leave you alone in such a neighborhood as this."

"It would be quite safe. You forget that it was in just such neighborhoods I passed my young days. I know them better than you appear to do, Inglefield. The people we see about us are respectable members of society--quite as respectable as ourselves. As to remaining, please yourself. I do not feel at all out of place in such society."

"Nor do I, sir," said Mark Inglefield, with a frank smile. "It is only my anxiety for you that made me say what I did."

"There is another matter which you seem to have forgotten. It is in this neighborhood that my son and his wife and daughter live, If I am not mistaken, Mr. Parkinson wishes to say something to us."

During this colloquy Mr. Parkinson had calmed himself greatly, and now, followed by his friends, approached the gentlemen.

"I should like to ask you a question or two," he said, addressing himself to Mark Inglefield, "if you have no objection."

"Of course I have no objection," said Mark Inglefield. "I will do whatever I can to help you; only come to the point."

"I'll do so, sir. Your visit here, on the face of it, seems fair and above-board. What I want to know first is, how it happens that my daughter had a portrait of yours in her possession?"

"My dear sir," replied Mark Inglefield, blandly, "you are putting a conundrum to me."

"You don't know how she got hold of it, sir?"

"I haven't the remotest notion."

"How comes it that, when I taxed her with it, she confessed that it was the portrait of the scoundrel who had brought her shame upon her?"

At this question all eyes were directed towards Mark Inglefield. Nothing daunted, he said:

"That is a question it is impossible for me to answer. She must, of course, have had some motive in giving utterance to so direct a falsehood. My only regret is that she is not here to tell you herself that we are complete strangers to each other. Has your daughter always told you the truth? Has she never deceived you?" Mr. Parkinson winced; these questions struck home. "Why, then," continued Mark Inglefield, perceiving his advantage, "should she not have deceived you in this instance? Perhaps she wishes to screen the man against whom you are justly angered; perhaps she still has a sneaking fondness for him, and protects him by throwing the blame upon a stranger."

"I don't dispute," said Mr. Parkinson, "that you may be right. But are you public property?"

"I fail to understand you."

"Are you a public man, sir?"

"Thank Heaven, no. I am a private gentleman."

"Your portraits are not put up in the shop windows for sale?"

"No."

"Then what I want to know is," said Mr. Parkinson, doggedly sticking to his point, "how your portrait fell into her hands."

"And that, I repeat," said Mark Inglefield, impatiently, "is exactly what I am unable to tell you."

"She couldn't have bought it. She must have had it given to her by some one."

"Well?"

"Whoever gave it to her must know you, and you must know him."

A murmur of approval ran through the throng. Nothing better pleases such an audience, as was now assembled, than an argument logically worked out.

"That does not follow," disputed Mark Inglefield, annoyed at Mr. Parkinson's pertinacity, but seeing no way to avoid it without incurring the risk of reviving Mr. Manners's suspicions.

"That's where the chances are, at all events," said Mr. Parkinson. "You see, sir, that you can't help being dragged into this bad business."

"And if I decline to be dragged into it?"

"It is what very few men would do, sir. I should say--and I think most of those round us will agree with me--that you are bound to do all you can to assist me in discovering the scoundrel who would ruin you as well as me."

Mr. Manners looked straight at Mark Inglefield. Mr. Parkinson's view tallied with that which he had expressed to Inglefield in their interview.

"I will do what I can," he said, "but I really am at a loss how to take even the first step."

"Thank you for saying so much, sir. We are all at a loss, but I don't intend to rest till I discover the scoundrel. You'll not object to giving me your name and address."

"What for?" demanded Mark Inglefield, wishing that the earth would open and swallow his tormentor.

"Give it to him," said Mr. Manners, quietly.

Thus forced to comply, Mark Inglefield, with a show of alacrity, handed Mr. Parkinson his card.

"I am obliged to you, sir," said Mr. Parkinson.

A possible road of escape presented itself to Mark Inglefield.

"Who saw this portrait?" he asked.

"No one in this neighborhood," replied Mr. Parkinson, "that I know of, except me and my daughter."

"It may not be my portrait, after all," suggested Mark Inglefield.

"There isn't a shadow of doubt, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, "that it is a picture of you. I'm ready to swear to it."

It was at this precise moment that there occurred to Mark Inglefield a contingency which filled him with apprehension. From what Mr. Manners had told him, Kingsley's wife had befriended Mary Parkinson, and was doubtless in the confidence of the poor girl. Suppose Mary had shown his portrait to Nansie, would she have recognized it? It was long since he and Nansie had met, and time had altered his appearance somewhat, but not sufficiently to disguise his identity. He did not betray his uneasiness, but a new feature was now introduced that caused him to turn hot and cold. This was the unwelcome and unexpected appearance of Blooming Bess upon the scene.