"He was an extremist. Also, he was a prolific and generous liar. He lied not to deceive, but to entertain. There was a kind of noble charity in his lying. He would gladly perjure his soul to speed an hour for any good friend. His was the fictional imagination largely exercised in the cause of human happiness. Now and then he became the hero of his own lies, but he was generally willing to divide the honors. His friends knew not when to believe him, and he often deceived them when he was telling the truth. "Early in April, Henry Delance came to me and said: 'Soc, you've been working hard for years, and you need a rest. Let's get aboard the next steamer and spend a fortnight in England.' "I had little taste for foreign travel, but Betsey urged me to go, and I went with Henry and his wife, their daughter Ruth and the boy Harry, and sundry maids and valets. We had been a week in London, when Henry and the Mrs. came into my room one day, aglow with excitement. Mrs. Delance was first to address me. "'Mr. Potter, congratulate us,' said she. 'We find that Henry is a lineal descendant of William the Conqueror.' "'Henry, it is possible that William could prove an alibi, or maybe you could,' I suggested. "'I'd make an effort,' said he, with a trace of embarrassment, 'but my wife thinks that we had better plead guilty and let it go. That kind of thing doesn't interest me so much as it does her.' "'After all,' I answered, by way of consolation, 'if you think it's like to do you any harm, it doesn't need to get out. I shall respect your confidence.' "'Too late!' his wife exclaimed. 'The facts have been cabled to America.' "I was writing letters in my room, next day, when Harry interrupted me with a hurried entrance. He locked the door inside, and in a kind of playful silence drew from under his rain-coat, and deposited on my table, a human skull. "'The Bishop of St. Clare,' he whispered, in that curious dialect which I shall not try to imitate. "'He isn't looking very well,' I said, not knowing what he meant. "'This is the Bishop's head--the Bishop of St. Clare,' Harry whispered again. 'He was one of our ancestors--by Jove!' "'Is that all that was the matter with him?' I asked. "'No; his epitaph says that he died of a fever in 1712.' "'How did you get hold of his head?' I asked. 'Win it in a raffle?' "'I bribed the old verger in the crypt of St. Mary's. Offered him two sovereigns to lift the stone lid and let me look in. He said he couldn't do that, but discreetly withdrew when I put the money in his hand. It was up to me, don't you know, and here is the Bishop's head.' "'Going to have him photographed in a group of the family?' I asked. "'No, but you see Materna paid two pounds for a chunk off a tombstone, and I thought I would give her a souvenir worth having,' said he, and blushed for the first time since our interview had begun. 'This is unique.' "'And you didn't think the Bishop would miss it?' I suggested.