"Yes; I forgot. The fault was mine." He looked at Mr. Manners, but the contractor's eyes were averted. Not by word or motion had he denoted that he had been an interested listener to what had passed. "Nothing can be decided in the absence of my son, and you must not suppose that I shall condemn him unheard. What reparation can be made--" He could not finish the sentence; his agitation was so great that he scarcely knew what he was saying. "You would not think of offering us money," said Mr. Parkinson, in a tone of deep sternness. "No, no, of course not. And yet--but I can say no more at present. Have you the portrait with you?" "Yes, I brought it, expecting you to ask to see it." He handed it to Mr. Hollingworth, who, the moment he saw it, gave utterance to a cry of joyful surprise. It was the cry of a man who had been suddenly and unexpectedly released from unendurable torture. "You are not mistaken?" he exclaimed. "This is the picture you found in your daughter's box?" "It is," replied Mr. Parkinson, gazing suspiciously at Mr. Hollingworth. "Your son's name is written on the back." "I see it, in your daughter's handwriting." Mr. Parkinson could not understand the meaning of another strange expression in Mr. Hollingworth's face as that gentleman raised his eyes from the picture and partly turned to the contractor. "You are satisfied that this is the portrait of the--the gentleman who has wronged your daughter?" "She told me it was, and I am satisfied." "You lift a weight from my heart. Mr. Parkinson, this is not the portrait of my son, nor of any member of my family." "I'll not take your word for it," cried Mr. Parkinson, taking, with some roughness, the picture from Mr. Hollingworth. "Tell me, sir, you," he said, addressing Mr. Manners, "whether he speaks the truth." Before Mr. Hollingworth could prevent him he thrust the picture into Mr. Manners's hand, who, gazing upon it, recognized the likeness of his nephew, Mark Inglefield. Mr. Manners and Mr. Hollingworth exchanged meaning glances. "My friend speaks truly," said Mr. Manners, "and you might have believed him without appealing to me. This is not his son." "What infamous plot is here?" cried Mr. Parkinson. "None of our making, Mr. Parkinson," said Mr. Hollingworth. "With all my heart I sympathize with you." "I want none of your sympathy," said Mr. Parkinson, "I want justice, and I will have it. Whoever this man is, I will drag him into the light." In his passion he turned from one to the other with furious looks. "You cannot blame the innocent," said Mr. Hollingworth, pointing to a picture on the wall. "That is my son, Mr. Parkinson. You can trace no resemblance between the portraits." "No, they are not the same men. What is the meaning of this mystery? It shall not remain a mystery long--I swear it!"