“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 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.