“When will you bring him?” he asked; “to-morrow?”

“My dear sir, do not be in too great haste; I am not gifted with miraculous powers.  I will bring the boy here or take you to him within two days, as I have agreed.”

“Well, then, to-day is Tuesday.  Will you have him here by Friday?  Friday morning?”

“By Friday afternoon, at any rate.”

The old man was carefully wrapping up the articles he had exhibited, and putting them back into his hand-bag.  Finally, Burnham’s attention was attracted to this proceeding.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “what are you doing?  You have no right to those things; they are mine.”

“Oh no! they are mine.  They shall be given to you some time perhaps; but, for the present, they are mine.”

“Stop! you shall not have them.  Those things are very precious to me.  Put them down, I say; put them down!”

“Very well.  You may have these or—­your boy.  If you force these things from me, you go without your child.  Now take your choice.”

Old Simon was very calm and firm.  He knew his ground, and knew that he could afford to be domineering.  His long experience in sharp practice had not failed to teach him that the man who holds his temper, in a contest like this, always has the best of it.  And he was too shrewd not to see that his listener was laboring under an excitement that was liable at any moment to break forth in passionate speech.  He was, therefore, not surprised nor greatly disturbed when Burnham exclaimed, vehemently:—­

“I’ll have you arrested, sir!  I’ll force you to disclose your secret!  I’ll have you punished by the hand of the law!”

“The hand of the law is not laid in punishment on people who are guilty of no crime,” responded Craft, coolly; “and there is no criminal charge that you can fairly bring against me.  Poverty is my worst crime.  I have done nothing except for your benefit.  Now, Mr. Burnham you are excited.  Calm yourself and listen to reason.  Don’t you see that if I were to give those things to you I would be putting out of my hands the best evidence I have of the truth of my assertions?”

“But I have seen you produce them.  I will not deny that you gave them to me.”

“Ah! very good; but you may die before night!  What then?”

“Die before night!  Absurd!  But keep the things; keep them.  I can do without them if you will restore the child himself to me.  When did you say you would bring him?”

“Friday afternoon.”

“Until Friday afternoon, then, I wait.”

“Very well, sir; good day!”

“Good day!”

The old man picked up his cane, rose slowly from his chair, and, with his satchel in his hand, walked softly out, closing the door carefully behind him.

Robert Burnham continued his walk up and down the room, his flushed face showing alternately the signs of the hope and the doubt that were striving for the mastery within him.