They had not, however, to wait long. As Mr. Erin had predicted, the news that the committee appointed to investigate the claims of the ‘Vortigern’ MS. had decided in its favour flew swiftly over the town. ‘From the palace to the cottage,’ said Mr. Erin in his enthusiasm, though probably it only reached the cottage _orné_. Letters of congratulation poured in from every quarter. Even Malone was reported to have said that if it could have been done _incognito_ he should have liked to see the manuscript. (What he really said was, ‘I wish that Steevens had found it,’ meaning that he should have taken a real pleasure in eviscerating _him_.) The opinion of antiquaries was divided; and if Reid and Ritson denounced the play, Garter-King-at-Arms was enthusiastic in its favour, and gave it more supporters than Heraldry ever dreamt of. Before a week was over came Mr. Harris, proprietor of Covent Garden Theatre, to Norfolk Street in person. The announcement of his name set William Henry’s heart beating more quickly than it had done even on that fateful afternoon in Anne Hathaway’s garden. For the first time he shrank from the customary ordeal of investigation, and Mr. Erin interviewed the manager alone. As it happened, the young man need have been under no apprehension of a brow-beating. Mr. Harris was a practical man, of an expansive mind, which did not stoop to details. ‘The committee, I hear, sir, have decided in favour of this play of yours,’ was his first remark; it was delivered with quite unnecessary abruptness, but it was not the tone alone which grated upon Mr. Erin’s ears. ‘This play of mine, as you have thought proper to term it, Mr. Harris,’ he replied with dignity, ‘is Shakespeare’s play.’ ‘So you say, and, indeed, so many other people say, or I should not be here,’ was the cool rejoinder. ‘Between ourselves, Mr. Erin, and, speaking as one man of the world to another, I don’t care a farthing—certainly not a Queen Anne’s farthing—whether it is Shakespeare’s play or not. The question that concerns _me_ is, “Do the public believe it to be such?”’ ‘Am I to understand, then, that you do not wish to examine the MS.?’ ‘Examine it? Certainly not. My time is very much occupied—it is in five acts, is it not?’ ‘It is in five acts,’ assented the antiquary; he could hardly trust himself to reply, except in the other’s words. Mr. Harris’s indifference, notwithstanding that it promised to facilitate matters, was most offensive to him. ‘Mr. Pye has been so good as to promise us a prologue for the play.’ ‘That’s good; “Prologue by the Poet Laureate“ will look well in the bill. We must have an epilogue ready, even though’—here he smiled grimly—’we never get so far as that.’ The suggestion of such a contingency—which, of course, meant total failure—in cold blood, filled up the cup of the antiquary’s indignation. He almost resolved, whatever this man offered, to decline his proposition to bring out the play.