ent frankness and friendliness toward all
men. The fact that these qualities were indeed apparent rather than
real, did not seem to matter; the general effect was the same. His
personal character, so far as any one knew, was beyond reproach. But
his reputation for shrewdness, for sharp practice, for concocting
brilliant financial schemes, was general. It was this latter
reputation that had brought Simon Graft to him.

This morning Sharpman was especially courteous. He regretted that his
visitor had been obliged to wait so long. He spoke of the beautiful
weather. He noticed that the old man was in ill health, and expressed
much sorrow thereat. Finally he said: "Well, my friend, I am at your
service for any favor I can do you."

Craft was not displeased with the lawyer's manner. On the contrary,
he rather liked it. But he was too shrewd and far-sighted to allow
himself to be carried away by it. He proceeded at once to business. He
took from an inner pocket of his coat the paper that Robert Burnham
had given to him the day before, unfolded it slowly, and handed it to
Sharpman.

"I want your opinion of this paper," he said. "Is it drawn up in legal
shape? Is it binding on the man that signed it?"

Sharpman took the paper, and read it carefully through; then he looked
up at Craft in unfeigned surprise.

"My dear sir!" he said, "did you know that Robert Burnham died last
night?"

The old man started from his chair in sudden amazement.

"Died!" he exclaimed. "Robert Burnham--died!"

"Yes; suffocated by foul air in his own mine. It was a dreadful
thing."

Craft dropped into his chair again, his pale face growing each moment
more pale and gaunt, and stared at the lawyer in silence. Finally he
said: "There must be some mistake. I saw him only yesterday. He signed
that paper in my presence as late as four o'clock."

"Very likely," responded Sharpman: "he did not die until after six.
Oh, no! there is no mistake. It was this Robert Burnham. I know his
signature."

The old man sat for another minute in silence, keen disappointment
written plainly on his face. Then a thought came to him.

"Don't that agreement bind his heirs?" he gasped, "or his estate?
Don't somebody have to pay me that money, when I bring the boy?"

The lawyer took the paper up, and re-read it. "No;" he said. "The
agreement was binding only on Burnham himself. It calls for the
production of the boy to him personally; you can't produce anything to
a