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?"