But as the solitary hours went by, this obstinate conviction began to slacken; as his indignation grew and grew against the author of his calamity, he began to admit that such a scoundrel might be capable of anything, even sacrilege. It was the affront to the Immortal Bard that he put first, and the offence to himself afterwards. Perhaps William Henry was aware that he was not his son, but he was also aware of the greatness of Shakespeare. And yet, what rankled more, was the consciousness that his own intelligence had been trifled with—that he had been made a fool of. It was a subject terrible to think about, and worse to talk about, and yet he longed for sympathy; the solitude of his own thoughts was intolerable to him.
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.