“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.”