And for every disgrace that has ever fallen upon me—for every sorrow I have ever suffered—for every sin I have ever committed—I look to one man as the cause." Margaret Wentworth had risen to her feet. She stood before her father now, pale and breathless, with her lips parted, and her bosom heaving. "Tell me his name, father," she whispered; "tell me that man's name." "Why do you want to know his name, Madge?" "Never mind why, father. Tell it to me—tell it!" She stamped her foot in the vehemence of her passion. "Tell me his name, father," she repeated, impatiently. "His name is Henry Dunbar," James Wentworth answered, "and he is the son of a rich banker. I saw his father's death in the paper last March. His uncle died ten years ago, and he will inherit the fortunes of both father and uncle. The world has smiled upon him. He has never suffered for that one false step in life, which brought such ruin upon me. He will come home from India now, I dare say, and the world will be under his feet. He will be worth a million of money, I should fancy; curse him! If my wishes could be accomplished, every guinea he possesses would be a separate scorpion to sting and to torture him." "Henry Dunbar," whispered Margaret to herself—"Henry Dunbar. I will not forget that name." CHAPTER III. THE MEETING AT THE RAILWAY STATION. When the hands of the little clock in Margaret's sitting-room pointed to five minutes before three, James Wentworth rose from his lounging attitude in the easy-chair, and took his hat from a side-table. "Are you going out, father?" the girl asked. "Yes, Madge; I'm going up to London. It don't do for me to sit still too long. Bad thoughts come fast enough at any time; but they come fastest when a fellow sits twirling his thumbs. Don't look so frightened, Madge; I'm not going to do any harm. I'm only going to look about me. I may fall in with a bit of luck, perhaps; no matter what, if it puts a few shillings into my pocket." "I'd rather you stayed at home, father dear," Margaret said, gently. "I dare say you would, child. But I tell you, I can't. I _can't_ sit quiet this afternoon. I've been talking of things that always seem to set my brain on fire. No harm shall come of my going away, girl; I promise you that. The worst I shall do is to sit in a tavern parlour, drink a glass of gin-and-water, and read the papers. There's no crime in that, is there, Madge?" His daughter smiled as she tried to arrange the shabby velvet collar of his threadbare coat. "No, father dear," she said; "and I'm sure I always wish you to enjoy yourself. But you'll come home soon, won't you?" "What do you call 'soon,' my lass?" "Before ten o'clock. My day's work will be all over long before that, and I'll try and get something nice for your supper." "Very well, then, I'll be back by ten o'clock to-night. There's my hand upon it." He gave Margaret his hand, kissed her smooth cheeks, took his cane from a corner of the room, and then went out.