The editor and his companion expected some expression of indignation
from Mr. Aram at this, some question of their right to come into his
house and cross-examine him and to accuse him, tentatively at least, of
literary fraud, but they were disappointed. Mr. Aram's manner was still
one of absolute impassibility. Whether this manner was habitual to him
they could not know, but it made them doubt their own judgment in having
so quickly accused him, as it bore the look of undismayed innocence.

It was the reporter who was the first to break the silence. "Perhaps
some one has signed Mr. Aram's name--the clerk who sent it, for
instance."

Young Mr. Aram looked up at him curiously, and held out his hand for the
second page. "Yes," he drawled, "that's how it happened. That's not my
signature. I never signed that."

The editor was growing restless. "I have several other poems here from
you," he said; "one written from the rooms of the Shakespeare Debating
Club, of which I see you are president. Your clerk could not have access
there, could he? He did not write that, too?"

"No," said Mr. Aram, doubtfully, "he could not have written that."

The editor handed him the poem. "It's yours, then?"

"Yes, that's mine," Mr. Aram replied.

"And the signature?"

"Yes, and the signature. I wrote that myself," Mr. Aram explained, "and
sent it myself. That other one ('Bohemia') I just copied out to
remember, but this is original with me."

"And the envelope in which it was enclosed," asked the editor, "did you
address that also?"

Mr. Aram examined it uninterestedly. "Yes, that's my handwriting too."
He raised his head. His face wore an expression of patient politeness.

"Oh!" exclaimed the editor, suddenly, in some embarrassment. "I handed
you the wrong envelope. I beg your pardon. That envelope is the one in
which 'Bohemia' came."

The reporter gave a hardly perceptible start; his eyes were fixed on the
pattern of the rug at his feet, and the editor continued to examine the
papers in his hand. There was a moment's silence. From outside came the
noise of children playing in the street and the rapid rush of a passing
wagon.

When the two visitors raised their heads Mr. Aram was looking at them
strangely, and the fingers folded in his lap were twisting in and out.

"This Shakespeare Debating Club," said the editor, "where are its rooms,
Mr. Aram?"

"It has no rooms, now," answered the poet. "It has disbanded. It never
had