‘Do not answer your father like that,’ said Margaret in low, reproving tones.
It was plain, indeed, that Mr. Erin was greatly agitated. His eyes were fixed upon his son, but without speculation in them. He looked like one in a trance, to whom has been vouchsafed some wondrous vision.
‘I know what is best,’ returned the young man under his breath, pressing Margaret’s shoulder with his hand. His arm still hung over her chair; his manner was studiously unmoved, as becomes the master of a situation.
‘Where is it?’ gasped the old man.
‘In the Temple. I have not yet obtained permission to bring it away. Until I could do that I felt it was useless to speak about the matter—that I should only be discredited. Even you yourself, unless you saw the manuscript, might hesitate to believe in its authenticity.’
‘The manuscript?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, his mind too monopolised by the splendour of the discovery to descend to detail; ‘you have really seen it, then, with your own eyes? An unacted play of Shakespeare’s!’
‘An unpublished one, at all events. I have certainly seen it, and within these two hours, but only in my patron’s presence.’
‘He said that whatever you found was to be yours,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin petulantly.
‘Well, up to this time he has been as good as his word,’ said William Henry smiling.
‘Indeed he has,’ remarked Margaret. ‘We must not be ungrateful, uncle.’