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 apparent 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 dead man."

Old Simon settled back in his chair, a perfect picture of gaunt despair.

Sharpman continued: "This is a strange case, though. I thought that child of Burnham's was dead. Do you mean to say that the boy is still living?"

"Yes; that's it. He wasn't even hurt. Of course he's alive. I know it."

"Can you prove it?"

"Certainly!"

The lawyer gazed at his visitor, apparently in doubt as to the man's veracity or sanity, and again there was silence.

Finally Craft spoke. Another thought had come to him.

"The boy's mother; she's living, ain't she?"

"Burnham's widow? Yes; she's living."

"Then I'll go to her! I'll make a new contract with her. The money'll be hers, now. I'll raise on my price! She'll pay it. I'll warrant she'll pay it! May be it's lucky for me, after all, that I've got her to deal with instead of her husband!"

Even Sharpman was amazed and disgusted at this exhibition of cruel greed in the face of death.

"That's it!" continued the old man in an exulting tone; "that's the plan. I'll go to her. I'll get my money—I'll get it in spite of death!"

He rose from his chair, and grasped his cane to go, but the excitement had brought on a severe fit of coughing, and he was obliged to resume his seat until it was over.

This delay gave Sharpman time to think.

"Wait!" he said, when the old man had finally recovered; "wait a little. I think I have a plan in mind that is better than yours—one that will bring you in more cash."

"More cash?" Craft was quiet and attentive in a moment. The word "cash" had a magical influence over him.

Sharpman arose, closed the door between the two rooms tightly, and locked it. "Some one might chance to intrude," he explained.

Then he came back, sat down in front of his visitor, and assumed an attitude of confidence.

"Yes," he said, "more cash; ten times as much."

"Well, what's your plan?" asked the old man, somewhat incredulously.

"Let me tell you first what I know," replied the lawyer. "I know that Mrs. Burnham believes this boy to be dead; believes it with her whole mind and heart. You would find it exceedingly difficult to convince her to the contrary. She would explain away your proofs: she would fail to recognize the child himself. Such an errand as you propose would be little better than useless."

Sharpman paused.

"Well, what's your plan?" repeated Craft, impatiently.

The lawyer assumed a still more confidential attitude.

"Listen! Burnham died rich. His wealth will mount well up into the hundreds of thousands. He leaves a widow and one daughter, a little girl. This boy, if he is really Burnham's son, is entitled to one third of the personal property absolutely, to one third of the real estate at once, and to one fourth of the remainder at his mother's death. Do you understand?" Old Simon nodded. This was worth listening to. He began to think that this shrewd lawyer was going to put him in the way of making a fortune after all. Sharpman continued: "Now, the boy is a minor. He must have a guardian. The mother would be the guardian preferred by law; but if, for any reason, she should fail to recognize the boy as her son, some one else must be appointed. It will be the duty of the guardian to establish his ward's identity in case it should be disputed, to sue for his portion of the estate, if necessary, and to receive and care for it till the boy reaches his majority. The usual guardian's commission is five per cent, retainable out of the funds of the estate. Do you see how the management of such an estate would be a fortune to a guardian, acting within the strict letter of the law?"

Craft nodded again, but this time with eagerness and excitement. He saw that a scheme was being opened up to him that outrivalled in splendid opportunities any he had ever thought of.

After a pause Sharpman asked, glancing furtively at his client:—

"Do you think, Mr. Craft, that you could take upon your shoulders the duties and responsibilities attendant upon such a trust? In short, could you act as this boy's guardian?"

"Yes, no doubt of it"; responded the old man, eagerly. "Why, I would be the very person. I am his nearest friend."

"Very well; that's my opinion, too. Now, then, as to the boy's identity. There must be no mistake in proving that. What proof have you? Tell me what you know about it."

Thus requested, Craft gave to the lawyer a detailed account of the disaster at the bridge, of the finding and keeping of Ralph, of his mysterious disappearance, and of the prolonged search for him.

"Day before yesterday," continued the old man, "I was watching the crowds at the circus,—I knew the boy was fond of circuses,—an who should go by me into the tent but this same Ralph. I made sure he was the identical person, and yesterday I went to Robert Burnham, and got that paper."

"Indeed! Where does the boy live? what does he do?"

"Why, it seems that he works at picking slate, in Burnham's own breaker, and lives with one Bachelor Billy, a simple-minded old fellow, without a family, who took the boy in when he was abandoned by the circus."

"Good!" exclaimed the lawyer; "good! we shall have a capital case. But wait; does Mrs. Burnham know of your interview with her husband, or about this paper?"

"I don't know. I left the man at his office, alone."

"At what hour?"

"Well, about half-past four, as nearly as I can judge."

"Then it's not at all probable that she knows. He went from his office directly to the breaker, and died before she could see him."

"Well, how shall we begin?" said Craft, impatiently. "What's the first thing to be done?" Visions of golden thousands were already floating before his greedy eyes.

"We shall not begin at all, just yet," said Sharpman. "We'll wait till the horror and excitement, consequent upon this disaster, have passed away. It wouldn't do to proceed now; besides, all action should be postponed, at any rate, until an inventory of the estate shall have been filed."

A look of disappointment came into old Simon's face. The lawyer noticed it. "You mustn't be in too much of a hurry," he said. "All good things come slowly. Now, I'll tell you what I propose to do. After this excitement has passed over, and the lady's mind has become somewhat settled, I will go to her myself, and say to her frankly that you believe her son to be still alive. Of course, she'll not believe me. Indeed, I shall be very careful to put the matter in such a shape that she will not believe me. I will say to her, however, that you have employed me to prosecute your claim for services to the child, and that it will be necessary to have a guardian appointed against whom such action may be taken. I will suggest to her that if she will acknowledge the boy to be her son, she will be the proper person to act as his guardian. Of course, she will refuse to do either. The rest is easy. We will go into court with a petition setting forth the facts in the case, stating that the boy's mother has refused to act as his guardian, and asking for your appointment as such. Do you see?"

"Oh, yes! that's good; that's very good, indeed."

"But, let me see, though; you'll have to give bonds. There's the trouble. Got any money, or any rich friends?"

"Neither; I'm very poor, very poor indeed, Mr. Sharpman."

"Ah! that's awkward. We can do nothing without bondsmen. The court wouldn't let us touch a penny of that fund without first giving good bonds.".

The look of disappointment and trouble had returned into the old man's face. "Ain't there some way you could get bonds for me?" he asked, appealingly.

"Well, yes, I suppose I might procure bondsmen for you; I suppose I might go on your bond myself. But you see no one cares to risk his fortune in the hands of a total stranger that way. We don't know you; we don't know what you might do."

"Oh! I should be honest, Mr. Sharpman, perfectly honest and discreet; and you should not suffer to the value of a cent, not a single cent."

"No doubt your intentions are good enough, my dear sir, but it requires great skill to handle so large an estate properly, and a single error in judgment on your part might cost thousands of dollars. Good intentions and promises are well enough in their way, but they are no security against misfortune, you see. I guess we'll have to drop the scheme, after all."

Sharpman arose and walked the floor in apparent perplexity, while Craft, resting his hands on his cane, and staring silently at the lawyer, tried to conceive some plan to prevent this golden opportunity from eluding his grasp. Finally Sharpman stopped.

"Craft," he said, "I'll tell you what I'll do. If you will give me a power of attorney to hold and manage all the funds of the trust until the boy shall have attained his majority, I'll get the necessary bonds for you."

Craft thought a moment. The proposition did not strike him favorably. "That would be putting the whole thing out of my hands into yours," he said.

"Ah! but you would still be the boy's guardian, with right to use all the money that in your judgment should be necessary, to maintain and educate him according to his proper station in life. For this purpose I would agree to pay you three thousand dollars on receipt of the funds, and three thousand dollars each year thereafter, besides your guardian's commission, which would amount to eight or ten thousand dollars at least. I would also agree to pay you a liberal sum for past services, say two or three thousand dollars. You would have no responsibility whatever in the matter. I would be liable for any mistakes you might make. You could use the money as you saw fit. What do you say?"

The scheme appeared to Simon Craft to be a very brilliant one. He saw a great fortune in it for himself, if he could only depend on the lawyer's promises.

"Will you give me a writing to this effect?" he asked.

"Certainly; we shall have a mutual agreement."

"Then I'll do it. You'll get the lion's share I can see that easy enough; but if you'll do what you say you will, I shan't complain. Then will I have a right to take the boy again?"

"Yes, after your appointment; but I don't think I would, if I were you. If he is contented and well off, you had better let him stay where he is. He might give you the slip again. How old is he now?"

"I don't know exactly; somewhere between ten and twelve, I think."

"Well, his consent to the choice of a guardian is not necessary; but I think it would be better, under the circumstances, if he would go into court with us, and agree to your appointment. Do you think he will?"

Old Simon frowned savagely.

"Yes, he will," he exclaimed. "I'll make him do it. I've made him do harder things than that; it's a pity if I can't make him do what's for his own benefit now!" He struck the floor viciously with his cane.

"Easy," said the lawyer, soothingly, "easy; I fear the boy has been his own master too long to be bullied. We shall have to work him in a different way now. I think I can manage it, though. I'll have him come down here some day, after we get Mrs. Burnham's refusal to acknowledge him, and I'll explain matters to him, and show him why it's necessary that you should take hold of the case. I'll use logic with him, and I'll wager that he'll come around all right. You must treat boys as though they were men, Craft. They will listen to reason, and yield to persuasion, but they won't be bullied, not even into a fortune. By the way, I don't quite understand how it was, if Burnham was searching energetically for the boy, and you were searching with as much energy for the boy's father all those years, that you didn't meet each other sooner."

Craft looked up slyly from under his shaggy eyebrows.

"May I speak confidentially?" he asked.

"Certainly."

"Well, then, I didn't wear myself out hunting for the boy's friends, for the first year or two. Time increases the value of some things, you know—lost children, particularly. I knew there was money back of the boy by the looks of his clothes. I kept matters pretty well covered up for a while; allowed that he was my grandson; made him call me 'Grandpa'; carried the scheme a little too far, and came near losing everything. Now, do you see?"

Sharpman nodded, and smiled knowingly. "You're a shrewd man, Craft," he said.

But the old man's thought had returned to the wealth he believed to be in store for him. "What's to be done now?" he asked. "Ain't there something we can start on?"

"No; we can do nothing until after I have seen the widow, and that will be a couple of months yet at least. In the meantime, you must not say a word to any one about this matter. The boy, especially, must not know that you have been here. Come again about the first of September. In the meantime, get together the evidence necessary to establish the boy's identity. We mustn't fail in that when it comes to an issue."

"I'll have proof enough, no fear of that. The only thing I don't like about the business is this waiting. I'm pretty bad here," placing his bony hand on his chest; "no knowing how long I'll last."

"Oh! you're good for twenty years yet," said Sharpman, heartily, taking him by the hand, and walking with him to the door. "A—are you pretty well off for money? Would trifling loan be of any benefit to you?"

"Why, if you can spare it," said the old man, trying to suppress his evident pleasure at the offer; "if you can spare it, it would come in very handy indeed."

Sharpman drew a well-filled wallet from his pocket, took two bills from it, folded them together, and placed them into Craft's trembling fingers. "There," he said, "that's all right; we won't say anything about that till we come into our fortune."

Old Simon pocketed the money, mumbling his thanks as he did so. The two men shook hands again at the outer door, and Craft trudged down the avenue, toward the railroad station, his mind filled with visions of enormous wealth, but his patience sorely tried by the long delay that he must suffer before his fingers should close upon the promised money.

Sharpman returned to his office to congratulate himself upon the happy chance that had placed so rich an opportunity within his grasp. If the old man's story were true—he proposed to take steps immediately to satisfy himself upon that point—then he saw no reason why he should not have the management of a large estate. Of course there would be opposition, but if he could succeed so far as to get the funds and the property into his hands, he felt sure that, in one way or another, he could make a fortune out of the estate before he should be compelled to relinquish his hold. As for Simon Craft, he should use him so far as such use was necessary for the accomplishment of his object. After that he would or would not keep faith with him, as he chose. And as for Ralph, if he were really Robert Burnham's son, he would be rich enough at any rate, and if he were not that son he would not be entitled to wealth. There was no use, therefore, in being over-conscientious on his account.

It was a brilliant scheme, worth risking a great deal on, both of money and reputation, Sharpman resolved to make the most of it.