At eleven o'clock punctually the next morning Mark Inglefield knocked at the door of Mr. Manners's study. They were not in the habit of taking their meals together; this was the reason of their not meeting at the breakfast-table. "Good-morning, sir," said Inglefield. "Good-morning," said Mr. Manners. Mark Inglefield was cheerful and composed, and Mr. Manners, gazing at him, could not help thinking that he must be mistaken in suspecting him of wrong-doing. "Shall we start at once, sir?" "At once." "I have been thinking," said Mark Inglefield, "of what took place last night, and I almost fear that I laid myself open to misconstruction." "In what way?" "By my manner. I was nervous and agitated, and I am afraid I expressed myself badly. It was not quite unnatural. The shock of finding myself charged with a crime so vile was great. Stronger men than I would have been unnerved. Indeed, sir, I could bear anything except the loss of your esteem." "It will soon be put to the proof, Inglefield." "Yes, sir, and I am truly glad that I shall be brought face to face with my accusers. When the poor girl who has been wronged sees me you will be immediately undeceived. Let us go, sir." "This," thought Mr. Manners, "is innocence; I have done Inglefield an injustice." His manner insensibly softened towards the schemer who up till now had so successfully plotted; but this more lenient mood was attributable only to his stern sense of justice. It was this which induced him to say aloud, "Inglefield, you gathered from what I said last night that it is not unlikely I may take steps to reconcile myself with my son and his wife?" If Mark Inglefield had dared he would have denied that he had gathered any such impression, but so much now depended upon his keeping his patron in a good-humor with him that he merely said, "Yes, sir," and waited for further developments. "Should this take place," continued Mr. Manners, "we shall both have to confess ourselves in the wrong. Your mistake may have been only an error of judgment; mine was much more serious; but that is a matter with which you have nothing to do. If Kingsley is willing, I should wish you and he to be friends." "I am ready to do anything," said Inglefield, "to please you. But may I venture to say something?" "Say whatever is in your mind, Inglefield." "Nothing, believe me, sir, could be farther from my desire than that you should find yourself unable to carry out your wishes. No effort shall be wanting on my part to bring happiness to you, quite independent of any reflection that may be cast upon my truthfulness and single-mindedness in what I unhappily was compelled to take part in many years ago. I waive all selfish considerations. I feel that I am expressing myself lamely, but perhaps you understand me." "Yes, and I appreciate your delicate position. Go on."