"Yes, I am rich."
"I am poor, and I will keep my place. It would be better for all of us if every man did the same. We can talk in the streets. It will serve some good purpose, you said. I ask nothing for myself, mind, nothing but justice."
"In the sad story you have told," said Mr. Manners, "you spoke of a woman who was kind to your daughter."
"I did, and what I said of her is true. She is an angel of goodness, and she saved my daughter, body and soul. See here, sir. I am not a church-going man, and I hate sanctimonious people, but I am not a heathen either. There's some kind of a power that made the world and sent us into it for some purpose. I often wonder what, when I think of things. And there's a hereafter, and I'm glad to know it. I'll tell you why I'm glad. Because, if that scoundrel who ruined my daughter escapes his punishment here--and I'll do my best that he sha'n't--but if he does escape it here, he'll meet it there! That's a satisfaction to me, and the thought of it will make me religious. I'll go to church next Sunday."
"My object in speaking to you now," said Mr. Manners, "is to obtain information of Mrs. Manners. I gathered from what you said that she is poor."
"Very poor," said Mr. Parkinson, "and that stands to her credit here, and 'll stand to her credit in the next world--if there's any justice there."
"In what way does it stand to her credit?"
Mr. Parkinson stopped suddenly to look at Mr. Manners's face, upon which the light of a street lamp was shining.
"You are asking close questions," he said, "and I'm getting suspicious of people."
"You are suspicious of me?"