h
to prolong this noble life for just one day. Still, there was silence
at the office. It grew ominous. A great hush had fallen on the
multitude. The sun dropped down behind the hills, obscured in mist,
and the pallor that precedes the twilight overspread the earth.

Then the office door was opened, and the white-haired doctor came
outside and stood upon the steps. His head was bared and his eyes
were filled with tears. He turned to those who stood near by, and
whispered, sadly:--

"He is dead."

CHAPTER III.

A BRILLIANT SCHEME.

Lackawanna Avenue is the principal thoroughfare in the city of
Scranton. Anthracite Avenue leads from it eastwardly at right angles.

Midway in the second block, on the right side of this last named
street, there stood, twenty years ago, a small wooden building, but
one story in height. It was set well back from the street, and a stone
walk led up to the front door. On the door-post, at the left, was a
sign, in rusty gilt letters, reading:--

JOHN R. SHARPMAN,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.

On the morning following his interview with Robert Burnham, Simon
Craft turned in from Anthracite Avenue, shuffled along the walk to the
office door, and stood for a minute examining the sign, and comparing
the name on it with the name on a bit of paper that he held in his
hand.

"That's the man," he muttered; "he's the one;" and he entered at the
half-opened door.

Inside, a clerk sat, busily writing.

"Mr. Sharpman has not come down yet," he said, in answer to Craft's
question. "Take a chair; he'll be here in twenty minutes."

The old man seated himself, and the clerk resumed his writing.

In less than half an hour Sharpman came in. He was a tall, well-built
man, forty years of age, smooth-faced, with a clerical cast of
countenance, easy and graceful in manner, and of pleasant address.

After a few words relating to a certain matter of business, the clerk
said to his employer,--

"This man has been waiting some time to see you, Mr. Sharpman."

The lawyer advanced to Craft, and shook hands with him in a very
friendly way. "Good-morning, sir," he said. "Will you step into my
office, sir?"

He ushered the old man into an inner room, and gave him an easy,
cushioned chair to sit in. Sharpman was nothing, if not gracious. Rich
and poor, alike, were met by him with the utmost cordiality. He had
a pleasant word for every one. His success at the bar was due, in no
small degree, to his appar