For though, of course, the old lawyer was not in love with Margaret, he had a much greater admiration for her than for the sacred relic. Still, in spite of himself, habit induced him to give some considerable attention to the document; even if it was a forgery it was curious, and, at all events, anything was better than sitting with his hands before him watching those uncomfortable faces. That of Mr. Samuel Erin was at present particularly so, for his visitor’s eye was travelling towards the ‘leaffee tree,’ a weak point, which he felt under the circumstances in a very ill condition to defend, when suddenly there was a knock at the door. ‘There is Willie!’ cried Margaret, starting to her feet. She felt assured, since so short a time had elapsed, that he had found his friend of the Temple at home; but what was the news he had brought with him? One glance at the young fellow as he entered the room was sufficient for her. It was good news. The eye of love is an auger that can pierce the heart, if not the soul; but to the other members of the party William Henry’s face told nothing. It did not indeed wear the expression of defeat, but still less did it exhibit triumph or exultation. It had the same quiet, almost indifferent air that it habitually wore when the Shakespearean discoveries were under discussion; but the pallor which anxiety had caused in it when he left the house upon his apparently hopeless errand was gone; with a quiet smile he drew forth a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Mr. Wallis. ‘You are quite right, sir,’ he said, ‘and yet you have not put my friend in the wrong. It is the case of the chameleon.’ ‘What is this?’ asked Mr. Wallis, a question which, having unfolded the paper, he proceeded to answer himself, in tones of the greatest amazement. ‘Why, this is John Hemynge over again—the real John Hemynge!’ ‘And yet, I suppose, not more real than the other,’ said William Henry quietly. ‘The simple explanation is that there were two of them.’ ‘Two of them!’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, looking much like the ‘gay French mousquetaire’ (only not ‘gay’) when he saw the ghost of his victim on one side of his bed, and her twin sister in the flesh on the other. ‘This paper, I see, is an account of some theatrical disbursements,’ observed Mr. Wallis, biting his lips in much perplexity. ‘That reminds me that the note of hand was upon a similar subject. You don’t mean to tell me that these Hemynges were, not only both of the same name, but of the same calling—actors?’