In the afternoon, at the same time he had been wont to appear in the days that seemed to be long past, Frank Dennis arrived. The antiquary seized his hand with a warmth that he had never before exhibited, though he had loved him well, and bade him be seated. The only thing that had ever come between them was this man’s disinclination to accept the very facts which he himself was beginning to doubt, and at first this rendered the meeting embarrassing; on the other hand, when once the ice was broken, it smoothed matters. ‘Have you heard the new story about William Henry?’ he asked in hesitating tones. ‘Yes; I wish I could think of it as I did of the old story. It is true, sir, every word of it.’ ‘You think so?’ returned the antiquary with a forced smile of incredulity. ‘I am sure of it,’ was the quiet reply. There was a long silence. ‘What proof have you to substantiate your assertion?’ The irony of fate had caused this question to be asked in the very room where proof used to be so constantly in view, and on the wall of which the ‘certificate’ of the believers in the Shakespeare documents still hung suspended. It was met by another question. ‘Have you not seen his confession?’ Mr. Erin pointed to the carpet on which the fragments of the document still remained. ‘It was placed in my hands,’ said he in a hoarse dry voice, ‘but I never read it.’ ‘No matter; it would only have given you pain. I have seen the unhappy lad and heard the truth from his own lips.’ ‘The truth!’ echoed the old man bitterly. ‘Yes, the truth at last. Here is a copy of an affidavit it is his intention to make to-morrow morning before a magistrate. There are things in it which one regrets; the tone of it is unsatisfactory. He does not seem so penetrated with the sense of his misconduct as would be becoming, but at all events he is careful to absolve everyone from complicity in his crime, and particularly yourself. “I solemnly declare,” he says, “that my father was totally unacquainted with the whole affair, believing most firmly the papers to be productions of Shakespeare.”’ The antiquary’s brow grew very dark. ‘I will never see that young man’s face if I can help it,’ he said solemnly, ‘or speak one word to him again, so help me Heaven!’ ‘He does not expect it,’ answered the other quietly. ‘Henceforward he will take his own way in the world. After “expressing regret for any offence he may have given the world or any individual, trusting at the same time they will deem the whole the act of a boy without any evil intention, but hurried on by vanity and the praise of others,“ he goes on to say, “Should I attempt any other play, or work of imagination, I shall hope the public will lay aside all prejudice my conduct may have deserved, and grant me their indulgence.” I suppose, therefore, he intends to live by his pen.’