"True, sir, true," exclaimed Mark Inglefield. "How could it have escaped me? And, now that you have reminded me, I believe you said that the girl herself unblushingly proclaimed that the portrait was that of her betrayer." He said this glibly; a plan was forming in his mind by which he could avert the threatened danger. "She proclaimed it," responded Mr. Manners, "so Mr. Parkinson informed me, but I do not think I said she proclaimed it unblushingly; I had no warranty for saying so." "The expression is mine, and fits the case; she has trumped up the story, very likely at the instigation of her accomplice." "If that is so he proves himself a clumsy scoundrel. Your statements established, Inglefield, you must bring this man to justice. It is a conspiracy to ruin you, therefore a criminal offence." "You may depend," said Mark Inglefield, vivaciously--his plan was formed, and he was confident of success--"that I shall not allow this scoundrel to escape me." "We will dismiss the matter for to-night," said Mr. Manners; "be sure that you are ready at eleven in the morning. And now I wish to speak to you upon another matter." "Very well, sir," said Inglefield, and thought: "What is the old fool going to bring forward now?" CHAPTER XXXIX. "I told you," said Mr. Manners, "that the matter we have left is one vital to your interests. The matter we are now approaching is vital to mine." "I am sure, sir," said Inglefield, wondering, "anything I can do to serve you--" "The truth will serve me; nothing less. How long is it since you saw my son, Kingsley?" "A great many years," replied Inglefield, with a fainting heart. Here was another unforeseen danger threatening him, for there was nothing of harshness or severity in Mr. Manners's voice; it was, indeed, gentle and tender. "How long since you have heard of him?" "Nearly as long. I never corresponded with him, you know. It was enough for me that he offended and deceived you--you, the best of men and fathers!" Mr. Manners gazed at Mark Inglefield in surprise. This reference to himself as the best of men and fathers was new to him, and from such a quarter quite unexpected. "I do not deserve your good opinion," he said; "I am not the best of men, and have not been the best of fathers." "Let others judge," murmured Inglefield. "They would condemn me, but not more strongly than I condemn myself." "Why do you agitate yourself, sir?" said Inglefield. "The affair is dead and buried long ago. You have no cause for reproach." "It is because I have true cause for reproach that I am tortured now. Wrongs may be buried, but they do not die. They live to bear after-fruit." He leaned his head upon his hand, and a thought flashed suddenly into Mark Inglefield's mind. "The past has been recalled to you, sir," he said, in a tone of false commiseration, "in some special way." "Yes, Inglefield." "Through this Mr. Parkinson?" asked Inglefield. "Yes, through him."