"I am obliged to you, sir," said Mr. Parkinson.
A possible road of escape presented itself to Mark Inglefield.
"Who saw this portrait?" he asked.
"No one in this neighborhood," replied Mr. Parkinson, "that I know of, except me and my daughter."
"It may not be my portrait, after all," suggested Mark Inglefield.
"There isn't a shadow of doubt, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, "that it is a picture of you. I'm ready to swear to it."
It was at this precise moment that there occurred to Mark Inglefield a contingency which filled him with apprehension. From what Mr. Manners had told him, Kingsley's wife had befriended Mary Parkinson, and was doubtless in the confidence of the poor girl. Suppose Mary had shown his portrait to Nansie, would she have recognized it? It was long since he and Nansie had met, and time had altered his appearance somewhat, but not sufficiently to disguise his identity. He did not betray his uneasiness, but a new feature was now introduced that caused him to turn hot and cold. This was the unwelcome and unexpected appearance of Blooming Bess upon the scene.
[CHAPTER XLIII.]
The wretched girl did not come alone. A woman dragged her forward.
"Here you are, Mr. Parkinson," said the woman. "Blooming Bess can tell you something about Mary's disappearance last night."