"Whose then, sir?"
"Yours."
Mark Inglefield started, and could have lashed himself for this exhibition of surprise.
"Surely," he said, "upon such evidence you do not accuse me?"
"I accuse no one. I must not forget to inform you that when Mr. Parkinson found the portrait he forced from his daughter the confession that it was that of her betrayer, who had the audacity and the infamy to present himself to her under the guise of a friend. Mr. Richard Hollingworth was your friend. Inglefield, I have purposely used these two strong words 'infamy' and 'audacity.' Do you agree with me that such conduct on the part of any man was audacious and infamous?"
"I agree with you entirely," replied Mark Inglefield, who, although he felt as if he were being caught in a trap, still spoke in a calm voice, and was busily casting about for ways and means to get out of it. "But I repeat, you would surely not accuse--nay, not only accuse, but convict me upon such evidence?"
"I have already told you that I accuse no one; still less would I convict without absolute proof. Very little more remains to be told of this shameful story. Mr. Hollingworth, upon seeing the portrait, indignantly defended his son, whose prospects of a public, honorable career would have been blasted had he been dragged into the courts, charged with a crime so vile, and he made the promise to Mr. Parkinson that if it should be proved that Richard Hollingworth was the betrayer, the young gentleman should make the girl the only reparation in the power of an honorable man."
"Marry her?"
"That was his undoubted meaning."
"It was a convenient promise," said Mark Inglefield, with easy assurance. "Had the portrait been that of his son he would not have made it. Mr. Hollingworth is a man of the world."