money back into his pocket. Then a
bit of his customary politeness returned to him.

"I shall not expect to see you in Scranton again for some time, Mr.
Cheekerton," he said, "but when you do come this way, I trust you will
honor me with a visit."

"Thank you, sir. When I return I shall expect to find that your
brilliant scheme has met with deserved success; that old Craft has
chuckled himself to death over his riches; and that my young friend
Ralph is happy in his new home, and contented with such slight remnant
of his fortune as may be left to him after you two are through with
it. By the way, let me ask just one favor of you on leaving, and
that is that the boy may never know what a narrow escape he has had
to-night, and may never know that he is not really the son of Robert
Burnham. It would be an awful blow to him to know that Old Simon is
actually his grandfather; and there's no need, now, to tell him.

"'Where ignorance is bliss,' you know the rest,
And a still tongue is generally the best."

"Oh, no, indeed! the boy shall hear nothing of the kind from me. I am
very much obliged to you, however, for the true story of the matter."

Under the circumstances Sharpman was outdoing himself in politeness,
but he could not well outdo Rhyming Joe. The young man extended his
hand to the lawyer with a respectful bow.

"I shall long remember your extreme kindness and courtesy," he said.

"Henceforth the spider of a friendship true,
Shall weave its silken web twixt me and you."

My dear sir, I wish you a very good night!"

"Good-night!"

The young man placed his silk hat jauntily on his head, and passed
through the outer office, whistling a low tune; out at the street door
and down the walk; out into the gay world of dissipation, down into
the treacherous depths of crime; one more of the many who have chained
bright intellects to the chariot wheels of vice, and have been dragged
through dust and mire to final and to irretrievable disaster.

A moment later a boy arose from a chair in the outer office and
staggered out into the street. It was Ralph. He had heard it all.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE ANGEL WITH THE SWORD.

Ralph had entered the office just as Rhyming Joe reached the point of
his disclosure. He had heard him declare, in emphatic tones: "I say
the boy Ralph is not Robert Burnham's son."

It was as though some one had struck him. He dropped into a chair and
sat as if under a spell, listening