The clock struck nine when a knock was heard at the door. Hester rose and opened it, and Dr. Perriera appeared. He looked round upon the happy group and smiled; but when the smile faded they observed an unwonted gravity in his face.

"What has happened?" asked Nansie, solicitously. Her sympathetic nature was ever on the alert to detect signs of trouble in her friends.

"Hester," said Dr. Perriera, "leave us for a moment or two. I wish to speak to your parents alone."

The girl retired to the inner room, and shut herself in.

"It is best to keep it from her ears," said Dr. Perriera; he addressed Mr. Manners. "You are as much concerned as any here in the news I have to impart. I was not present when you and a friend came to the neighborhood this morning to see Mr. Parkinson; but, if I am not mistaken, you are interested in the misfortune which has fallen upon him."

"I am deeply interested in it," replied Mr. Manners, "and have pledged myself to sift the unhappy matter to the bottom. But, unfortunately, the poor girl has disappeared."

"The truth may be made clear this very night," said Dr. Perriera. "Strange news has strangely reached me. May I ask if this is the portrait of the friend who accompanied you?"

He handed to Mr. Manners the portrait of Mark Inglefield which Mr. Parkinson had shown to him and Mr. Hollingworth on the previous night.

"Yes, it is he," said Mr. Manners.

"I obtained it from Mr. Parkinson," said Dr. Perriera, "and promised that I would return it."

"But your reason?" asked Mr. Manners.

"If you will come with me," replied Dr. Perriera, "all shall be explained. No, not you, or you"--Kingsley and Nansie had both risen, in token of their willingness to assist him. "Leave the matter in our hands. I am at present," he added, glancing at Mr. Manners, "somewhat in the dark, and perhaps I have small right to inquire into your motives. What chiefly concerns me, as taking what I may call a vital interest in the poor people among whom I have passed my life, is that a worthy man has been foully wronged, and a weak-minded girl beguiled by the arts of a scoundrel. To right this wrong I am willing to make some sacrifice, if only in the cause of justice."

While he spoke, Mr. Manners, without thinking, had laid the portrait of Mark Inglefield on the table, and Kingsley, looking down, recognized it. A sudden paleness came on his face, and Nansie, following the direction of his eyes, also looked at the portrait and recognized it. For a moment or two no one spoke, and then Kingsley whispered a few words to Nansie, and she left the room in silence.

"Before you go with Dr. Perriera," said Kingsley to his father, "there is something that must be said. It refers to this man, in whose company I now learn you came here this morning."

"Speak, Kingsley," said Mr. Manners, extending his hand to his son; but Kingsley did not attempt to take it. "Do you doubt me, Kingsley?"

"No, father," said Kingsley, with a certain decision in his voice and manner which surprised his listeners, "I do not doubt you; I never have, and I never shall. Most earnestly do I hope that we shall never be separated again."

"We never shall, Kingsley," said Mr. Manners, "if it rests with me. You have no reason to trust my word--"

"I have every reason," interrupted Kingsley, impetuously. "You have never swerved from it; you have been always just. It is not"--and now there was a heightened color in his face as he pointed to the portrait--"because this man was my enemy that I regard him with horror, but because I have grounds for suspicion that he sought to defame the dearest, purest woman that ever drew the breath of heaven. For me, he may pass by unscathed, though I would not defile myself by touching his hand; but for another, whom I love and honor as an angel on earth, I would drag his foul lie to light, and throw it in his teeth! I have erred, but never in my life have I done conscious wrong. What there is best in me, father, I draw from you." Mr. Manners sighed and turned his head. "You never deceived man or woman, and you transmitted to me an inheritance of right-doing which has been more precious to me than gold. Answer me candidly, father. Did not this man traduce my wife?"

"He did; and, Heaven forgive me, I believed him."

"And now?"

"And now," said Mr. Manners, stretching forth his hands, "there is no penance I would deem too great to repair the injustice I have committed. The man who traduced you and your honored wife is no longer my friend. Without you, my son, and Nansie and Hester, I should be alone in the world."

This appeal was sufficient for Kingsley, whose manner instantly softened. He passed his arm affectionately round his father's shoulder.

"After all," he said, "why should we be troubled by the knowledge that there are men living who find pleasure in base actions? Let us pity, even while we condemn them."

But there was no pity in Mr. Manners's heart towards Mark Inglefield. His suspicions were revived by what Dr. Perriera had said, and the true nature of the man seemed to be revealed to him.

"You will return to-night, father?" said Kingsley. Mr. Manners looked at Dr. Perriera.

"I cannot tell," said the doctor. "It will depend upon what you resolve to do."

"Can I find a bed in the neighborhood?" asked Mr. Manners.

"I can offer you one," replied Dr. Perriera.

"Early or late," said Mr. Manners to Kingsley, "I will return to-night."

"We will wait up for you," said Kingsley.

Then Mr. Manners called Nansie and Hester, and, kissing them with much affection, departed with Dr. Perriera.

As they walked to the shop Mr. Manners, without reserve, imparted to Dr. Perriera the nature of the connection between him and Mark Inglefield. The confidence was a great relief to him. Hitherto he had taken pride in keeping his private affairs close shut in his heart, and now that the floodgates were open a strange feeling of satisfaction stole over him. Truly he was no longer alone.

Dr. Perriera did not interrupt him with questions, and when Mr. Manners ceased speaking he said: "I will not assist you to prejudge the case. You shall hear from Timothy Chance's own lips the story he related to me."

"It is he, then," said Mr. Manners, "who has stirred up this matter afresh?"

"Timothy," said the doctor, "is one of us. He passed many years of his life in these streets, and he is acquainted with nearly every person round about. He knew Mary Parkinson as a child, and, sharp business man as he is, he is keen in matters of justice."

"Does he know anything of my intimacy with Mr. Inglefield?"

"No; nor does he know that Kingsley is your son. It will be strange news to him, and he will rejoice in the good-fortune of the dearest friends he has. I bade him await my return in my shop."

Mr. Manners was scarcely prepared to see in Timothy Chance a man who won his regard the moment he set eyes upon him. Timothy had grown into something more than a respectable man; his appearance was remarkable. He was tall and well proportioned, and there was a sincerity and straightforwardness in his manner which could not fail to favorably impress strangers with whom he came into contact for the first time. Being introduced, he and Mr. Manners shook hands with cordiality. "Here is a man," thought Mr. Manners, "who, like myself, has carved his way upwards." That fact was in itself sufficient to insure respect.

"Mr. Chance," said Dr. Perriera--he usually called him by the old name Timothy, but on this occasion he considered it would add weight to Timothy's character to address him by a more ceremonious title--"relate to Mr. Manners what you have told me of Mary Parkinson. It may lead to a result you little dream of."

"Will it lead to justice?" asked Timothy.

"It shall," said Mr. Manners.

These two practical men immediately understood each other.

"It saddens me," said Timothy, addressing himself chiefly to Mr. Manners, "to see those I have known from childhood on the wrong path. Generally these things come home to one, but they appeal to us more closely when there is a personal connection. The lot of the poor is hard enough, without those who should know better making it harder. I do not speak as a class man, but as a man who is desirous to mend social grievances. Perhaps by and by I may be able to do something in a public way."

"Mr. Chance is ambitious," observed Dr. Perriera.

"Not for myself, nor from vanity, am I so. I have nothing to boast of in my parents, for I never saw their faces. I have lifted myself out of the evil they might have brought upon me. These things lie deep, sir, deeper than most people consider. But that is not to the point. This is what I have to say with respect to Mary Parkinson. I have a poultry farm in Finchley, and I attend to my business. I am up early and late. It happened last night that I had much to look after, and my affairs kept me up till the small hours of this morning. Within a hundred yards of my farm is a public-house, the Three Tuns. At four o'clock this morning I walked from my office into the fresh air, before retiring to rest. I do this often; it freshens me up. When I was within a few yards of the Three Tuns, my attention was attracted to a cab which had just driven up to the door. It was an unusual hour for such a thing to occur. A man got out of the cab, and knocked at the door, and after some delay it was opened. Exchanging some words with the person who answered his summons, he returned to the cab, and assisted a woman to alight. I did not catch sight of her face, but I saw the man's; it was strange to me. The woman appeared to be in great agitation, and it seemed to me that she had been crying. Presently they entered the public-house, the door of which was closed upon them. I got into conversation with the driver of the cab, and learned that he had had a long drive from the east end of London, quite close to this spot. He was to drive the gentleman back to London, he said; and soon the gentleman came out, entered the cab, and was driven away. I don't know why this simple adventure should have made an impression upon me, but it did. However, I had other things to think of, and I went to bed. I was up early, and in London here, to see to the new shop I have opened. I was due in Finchley again this afternoon--I am a busy man, you see, sir--and it happened that when I arrived there I saw another cab stop at the Three Tuns. But though it was another cab, it was the same man who got out of it, and I saw his face very clearly. It was not the same woman, though, that jumped out, and I knew her well. It was a poor, foolish girl, almost a child in years, but a woman in sin, who goes by the name of Blooming Bess. Both the man and the girl went into the Three Tuns. My curiosity was aroused; my suspicions also. I did not like the face of the man; it was cold, heartless, cunning. He had cast looks about him in which I seemed to discern evil; he came from a quarter, or at least his companion did, with which I was intimately acquainted. We don't live in the world without learning, and I have learned something of the ways of scoundrels. If chance had put it into my power to unmask one--and I had a strange idea that it might be really so--I resolved not to throw it away. I hung about the place for some time, and at length bribed a servant to tell Blooming Bess secretly that a friend wished to speak to her in private. Out she came in a few minutes, and I had talk with her, and learned that the woman who had been brought to the Three Tuns, in the middle of the night, was no other than Mary Parkinson. Blooming Bess is a careless, reckless soul, the sort of girl who might have grown into an honest, respectable woman if she had had fair chances. She hadn't, and that is why she is what she is. I don't say it as a boast that I have helped her out of hunger sometimes, and I know she is grateful to me. This afternoon I promised her something which I shall fulfil; she shall have the chance that has never yet been put in her way of becoming a decent member of society. And upon the strength of that promise she told me all I wished to know. It seems that the man, whose name she had obtained, had come in the dead of night to the street in which Mr. Parkinson lived. He did not know the house, and he bribed Blooming Bess to point it out to him. When he thought he had got rid of her, he threw a letter up to Mary Parkinson, whom he had succeeded in awaking, and she came down to him. They went away together, and Blooming Bess saw them drive off in a cab. She had kept watch upon his movements. This morning the scoundrel came to the neighborhood for the purpose of clearing himself from some kind of suspicion which had attached itself to him in relation to Mary Parkinson. He came with a friend."

"With me," said Mr. Manners.

"I guessed as much. The scoundrel professed absolute ignorance of the whereabouts of Mary Parkinson, and had it not been for what happened to me last night, might even now have been regarded as an innocent man. I will not lengthen the story. Blooming Bess expressed her opinion of the man in terms which he would not have regarded as flattering. 'He's promised me I don't know what,' she said, 'to keep his secret; but I know the sort of man he is. When he's got all out of me he can, he'll throw me away like an old glove--as he'll throw away Mary. The fool believes in him even now!' Then she told me that he had tried to disguise himself in the night by putting on another suit of clothes--I had observed that myself--and that if it hadn't been for her, his villainy would have been exposed this morning when he came here with you. These are the main lines of the story, and I determined to bring the scoundrel to book. I gathered from Blooming Bess that the three of them were to remain at the Three Tuns to-night, and were all to go away together to some place or other; but where she did not know. He refused to tell her when she asked him. However, my intention was to take Mr. Parkinson to the Three Tuns to-night, and see what could be done. But I have not spoken to him yet of my plan. Dr. Perriera, to whom I have told the whole of the story, has persuaded me to be guided by him in the affair; he has a wise head and a kind heart, and I am satisfied that he will do what is right. The first thing he did was to go to Mr. Parkinson and obtain a portrait of the scoundrel who has brought Mary to shame. This I recognized as the man who brought Mary Parkinson and Blooming Bess to the Three Tuns. Then he desired me to wait here until he returned. He has returned, with you, sir. That is all I have to say for the present."

"I need no further assurance," said Mr. Manners; "but you may as well mention the name which that girl Bess gave you."

"Mr. Mark Inglefield," said Timothy Chance.

"It is enough. You have rendered me a great service, for which I cannot be sufficiently grateful. I will go to this man myself to-night, and he shall learn from my lips that his knavery and villainy have been brought to light. I hold a power over him which I can serviceably use."

"Your plan is a good one," said Dr. Perriera. "It would never do to take Mr. Parkinson to his daughter. There would be mischief done. He has been heard to say a dozen times today, 'If I meet the villain who has ruined my daughter, and if he will not make an honest woman of her, I will hang for him.' You will not go alone?"

Mr. Manners looked at Timothy Chance inquiringly.

"Yes, sir," said Timothy, "if you will allow me, I will accompany you."

"I thank you," said Mr. Manners, and again the two men shook hands.

Then Mr. Manners desired Dr. Perriera to go to Kingsley, and tell him that he might not return till morning, and that it would be best not to wait up for him. After which, he and Timothy set out on their errand.

"I will drive you," said Timothy; "I have a fast-trotting mare that will skim over the ground."

The fast-trotting mare being harnessed, they started off at the rate of ten miles an hour.