There was something about the lad, too, that reminded him, not so much of what his own child had been as of what he might have been had he lived to this boy’s age.  It was not alone in the name, but something also in the tone of voice, in the turn of the head, in the look of the brown eyes; something which struck a chord of memory or hope, and brought no unfamiliar sound.

The thought pleased him, and he dwelt upon it, and, turning away from his table with its accumulation of letters and papers, he looked absently out into the busy street and laid plans for the future of this boy who had dropped so suddenly into the current of his life.

By and by he heard some one in the outer office inquiring for him.  Then his door was opened, and a stranger entered, an old man in shabby clothes, leaning on a cane.  He was breathing heavily, apparently from the exertion of climbing the steps at the entrance, and he was no sooner in the room than he fell into a violent fit of coughing.

He seated himself carefully in a chair at the other side of the table from Mr. Burnham, placed a well worn leather satchel on the floor by his side, and laid his cane across it.

When he had recovered somewhat from his shortness of breath, he said:  “Excuse me.  A little unusual exertion always brings on a fit of coughing.  This is Mr. Robert Burnham, I suppose?”

“That is my name,” answered Burnham, regarding his visitor with some curiosity.

“Ah! just so; you don’t know me, I presume?”

“No, I don’t remember to have met you before.”

“It’s not likely that you have, not at all likely.  My name is Craft, Simon Craft.  I live in Philadelphia when I’m at home.”

“Ah!  Philadelphia is a fine city.  What can I do for you, Mr. Craft?”

“That isn’t the question, sir.  The question is, what can I do for you?”

The old man looked carefully around the room, rose, went to the door, which had been left ajar, closed it noiselessly, and resumed his seat.

“Well,” said Mr. Burnham, calmly, “what can you do for me?”

“Much,” responded the old man, resting his elbows on the table in front of him; “very much if you will give me your time and attention for a few moments.”

“My time is at your disposal,” replied Burnham, smiling, and leaning back in his chair somewhat wearily, “and I am all attention; proceed.”

Thus far the old man had succeeded in arousing in his listener only a languid curiosity.  This coal magnate was accustomed to being interrupted by “cranks” of all kinds, as are most rich men, and often enjoyed short interviews with them.  This one had opened the conversation in much the usual manner, and the probability seemed to be that he would now go on to unfold the usual scheme by which his listener’s thousands could be converted into millions in an incredibly short time, under the skilful management of the schemer.  But his very next words dispelled this idea and aroused Robert Burnham to serious attention.