"Yes." Almost upon the utterance of the word there came to Mark Inglefield the recollection of the estrangement between Mr. Manners and his only child; and now there occurred to him that behind this story of Mary Parkinson there lay something which might be of almost equal consequence to his prospects. All the cunning forces of his nature took array within him, and stood on the alert for the protection of their wily master. The affair was beginning to assume a more serious aspect. Well, he was prepared to battle with it. "I am pleased to hear your opinion, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners; "it coincides with mine." ("I was right," thought Inglefield.) "The daughter, however," pursued Mr. Manners, "again in her home, was most unhappy, from a cause which her father had not suspected. He set a watch upon her, to discover the cause of her unhappiness, and soon found that he was threatened by another disgrace. Maddened by this discovery, he questioned his daughter, and pressed her to give him the name of her betrayer. She refused." ("Good girl!" thought Mark Inglefield; "stanch girl! I am safe.") "Mr. Parkinson was not the kind of man, with this additional disgrace hanging over him, to rest contented with the refusal, and he adopted the extreme measure of breaking open his daughter's box, in which he found the portrait of a man, a stranger to him. On the back of this portrait a name was written." (Mark Inglefield smiled placidly. "I never gave her a portrait of myself," he thought, "though she begged often for one. Nor has she a scrap of my writing to bring against me. You were ever prudent, Mark. You will get over this difficulty, have no fear.") Mr. Manners had observed the placid smile, but he made no comment on it. "It happened that the name written on the back of the picture has just been brought into prominence, and with this double clew in his possession, Mr. Parkinson sought, and after some difficulty obtained, an interview with Mr. Hollingworth, in which he told the story I have narrated to you. Are you curious to learn the reason of his desire to speak with Mr. Hollingworth?" "It would be strange," said Mark Inglefield, "if I were not interested in anything concerning a family with which I hope to be soon connected by marriage." "Mr. Parkinson accused Mr. Hollingworth's son, Richard, who has just won his election, of being Mary Parkinson's betrayer. Shocked at the charge, Mr. Hollingworth demanded some better proof than Mr. Parkinson's bare word, and the wronged father produced it. He handed the portrait he had found in his daughter's box to Mr. Hollingworth, and stated how it had come into his possession. The name written on the back of the photograph was Richard Hollingworth." "In whose writing?" asked Mark Inglefield. "In Mary Parkinson's. But the portrait was not that of Richard Hollingworth." "Whose then, sir?" "Yours." Mark Inglefield started, and could have lashed himself for this exhibition of surprise.