"We will first," said Mr. Manners, "dispose, as far as we can, of the wrongs of which Mr. Parkinson complains. I say as far as we can, because I wish you to distinctly understand that I intend myself to investigate the matter."
"I understand so, sir," said Mark Inglefield, inwardly cursing Mr. Manners for his obstinacy.
"You should be glad that I have resolved upon this course. Declaring yourself innocent, as you do, the result should more completely exonerate you. In which case Mr. Hollingworth will doubtless adhere to the alliance which I went to his house to-night to complete."
"Otherwise he will not?"
"Otherwise he will not," said Mr. Manners. "Do you wish to hear the words he uttered with respect to you?"
"It will be best," said Mark Inglefield.
"Mr. Parkinson's story being told, he left the house, and Mr. Hollingworth and I remained in conference for a few minutes. It was then that Mr. Hollingworth said: 'It remains for your nephew, Mr. Inglefield, to clear himself from this foul charge. If he cannot do so, he has played the part of an infamous scoundrel.' Strong words, Inglefield."
"Yes, sir," said Mark Inglefield, "and that they should be used towards me fills me with indignation and amazement."
"Innocent, your feelings are justifiable, and you will find Mr. Hollingworth ready to make amends. In what he said I fully concurred. I will explain as briefly as possible the matter of which Mr. Parkinson complains. He is a working-man, living in the east of London. He has one child, a young woman named Mary." Mr. Manners paused; Mark Inglefield never winced. "This daughter, it appears," continued Mr. Manners, "has fallen a victim to the designs of a scoundrel. She fled from her home at this scoundrel's instigation, who, wearying of her, deserted her and left her, ruined and penniless, to die or pursue her life of shame."
"It is not at all an unusual story," said Mark Inglefield, apparently listening to the narrative with great interest, "but I fail to see its relation with me."