"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."