Lawyer Sharpman sat in his office on Sunday evening, meditating on his success in the Burnham suit and planning to avert the dangers that still lay in his path.

Old Simon’s disclosures in court were a source of much anxiety to him. Goodlaw’s design in bringing them out was apparent, and he felt that it must in some way be thwarted. Of what use was it to establish the boy’s identity if he could not control the boy’s fortune? He was glad he had asked Ralph to call. He intended, when he should come, to have a long talk with him concerning his guardian. He hoped to be able to work into the boy’s mind a theory that he had been as well treated during his stay with Simon Craft as circumstances would permit. He would remind him, in the most persuasive manner possible, that Craft was old and ill and easily annoyed, that he was poor and unable to work, that his care for and maintenance of Ralph were deeds of the purest generosity, and that the old man’s entire connection with the matter was very creditable to him, when all the adverse circumstances against which he had to struggle were taken into account. If he could impress this view of the case strongly enough upon Ralph’s mind, he should not greatly fear the result of possible proceedings for the dismissal of the guardian. This, at any rate, was the first thing to be done, and to-night was the time to do it.

He had been lying back in his chair, with his hands locked behind his head. He now straightened himself, drew closer to the table, turned up the gas, looked over some notes of evidence, and began to mark out a plan for his address to the jury on the morrow. He was sitting in the inner room, the door between that and the outer room being open, but the street door closed.

After a little he heard some one enter and walk across the floor. He thought it must be Ralph, and he looked up to welcome him. But it was dark in the outer office, and he could not see who came, until his visitor was fairly standing in the door-way of his room.

It was not Ralph. It was a young man, a stranger. He wore a pair of light corduroy pantaloons, a checked vest, a double-breasted sack coat, and a flowing red cravat.

He bowed low and said:

“Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Sharpman, attorney at law?”

“That is my name,” said the lawyer, regarding his visitor with some curiosity, “will you walk in?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

The young man entered the room, removed his high silk hat from his head, and laid it on the table, top down. Then he drew a card case from an inner pocket, and produced and handed to the lawyer a soiled card on which was printed in elaborate letters the following name and address:

L. JOSEPH CHEEKERTON,

PHILADELPHIA.

“Rhyming Joe.”

While Sharpman was examining the card, his visitor was forming in his mind a plan of procedure. He had come there with a carefully concocted lie on his tongue to swindle the sharpest lawyer in Scranton out of enough money to fill an empty purse.

“Will you be seated, Mr. Cheekerton?” said the lawyer, looking up from the card.

“Thank you, sir!”

The young man drew the chair indicated by Sharpman closer to the table, and settled himself comfortably into it.

It is somewhat unusual, I presume, he said, for attorneys to receive calls on Sunday evening:

“But this motto I hold as a part of my creed,
The better the day, why, the better the deed.

“Excuse me! Oh, no; it doesn’t hurt. I’ve been composing extemporaneous verse like that for fifteen years. Philosophy and rhyme are my forte. I’ve had some narrow escapes to be sure, but I’ve never been deserted by the muses. Now, as to my Sunday evening call. It seemed to be somewhat of a necessity, as I understand that the evidence will be closed in the Burnham case at the opening of court to-morrow. Am I right?”

“It may be, and it may not be,” said Sharpman, somewhat curtly. “I am not acquainted with the plans of the defence. Are you interested in the case?”

“Indirectly, yes. You see, Craft and I have been friends for a good many years, we have exchanged confidences, and have matured plans together. I am pretty well acquainted with the history of his successes and his failures.”

“Then it will please you to know that he is pretty certain to meet with success in the Burnham suit.”

Yes? I am quite delighted to hear it:

“Glad to know that wit and pluck
Bring their owner such good-luck.

“But, between you and me, the old gentleman has brought some faculties to bear on this case besides wit and pluck.”

“Ah, indeed?”

“Yes, indeed! You see, I knew all about this matter up to the time the boy ran away. To tell the truth, the old man didn’t treat the lad just right, and I gave the little fellow a pointer on getting off. Old Simon hasn’t been so friendly to me since, for some reason.

“Strange what trifles oft will tend
To cool the friendship of a friend.

“In fact, I was not aware that the boy had been found, until I heard that fact from his own lips one day last fall, in Wilkesbarre. We met by a happy chance, and I entertained him on account of old acquaintance’s sake.”

In a moment the story of Ralphs adventure in Wilkesbarre returned to Sharpman, and he recognized Rhyming Joe as the person who had swindled the lad out of his money. He looked at the young man sternly, and said:

“Yes; I have heard the story of that chance meeting. You were very liberal on account of old acquaintance’s sake, were you not? entertained the boy till his pocket was empty, didn’t you?” and the lawyer cast a look of withering contempt on his visitor.

But Rhyming Joe did not wither. On the contrary, he broke into a merry fit of laughter.

“Good joke on the lad, wasn’t it?” he replied. “A little rough, perhaps, but you see I was pretty hard up just then; hadn’t had a square meal before in two days. I’ll not forget the boy’s generosity, though; I’ll call and see him when he comes into his fortune; he’ll be delighted to receive me, I’ve no doubt.

“For a trifle like that he’ll remember no more,
In the calm contemplation of favors of yore.”

But, let that pass. That’s a pretty shrewd scheme Old Simon has on foot just now, isn’t it? Did he get that up alone or did he have a little legal advice? I wouldn’t have said that he was quite up to it all, himself. It’s a big thing.

“A man may work hard with his hands and his feet
And find but poor lodging and little to eat.
But if he would gather the princeliest gains
He must smother his conscience and cudgel his brains.”

Sharpman looked sternly across at his visitor. “Have you any business with me?” he said; “if not, my time is very valuable, and I desire to utilize it.”

“I beg pardon, sir, if I have occupied time that is precious to you. I had no particular object in calling except to gratify a slight curiosity. I had a desire to know whether it was really understood between you that is whether the old man had enlightened you as to who this boy actually is that’s all.”

“There’s no doubt as to who the boy is. If you’ve come here to give me any information on that point, your visit will have been useless. His identity is well established.”

“Yes? Well, now I have the good-fortune to know all about that child, and if you are laboring under the impression that he is a son of Robert Burnham, you are very greatly mistaken. He is not a Burnham at all.”

Sharpman looked at the young man incredulously. “You do not expect me to believe that?” he said. “You certainly do not mean what you are saying?”

There was a noise in the outer room as of some one entering from the street. Sharpman did not hear it; he was too busily engaged in thinking. Rhyming Joe gave a quick glance at the room door, which stood slightly ajar, then, turning in his chair to face the lawyer, he said deliberately and with emphasis:

“I say the boy Ralph is not Robert Burnham’s son.”

For a moment Sharpman sat quietly staring at his visitor; then, in a voice which betrayed his effort to remain calm, he said:

“What right have you to make such a statement as this? How can you prove it?”

“Well, in the first place I knew the boy’s father, and he was not Robert Burnham, I assure you.”

“Who was he?”

“Simon Craft’s son.”

“Then Ralph is ?”

“Old Simon’s grandchild.”

“How do you happen to know all this?”

“Well, I saw the child frequently before he was taken into the country, and I saw him the night Old Simon brought him back. He was the same child. The young fellow and his wife separated, and the old man had to take the baby. I was on confidential terms with the old fellow at that time, and he told me all about it.”

“Then he probably deceived you. The evidence concerning the railroad disaster and the rescue of Robert Burnham’s child from the wreck is too well established by the testimony to be upset now by such a story as yours.”

“Ah! let me explain that matter to you. The train that went through the bridge was the express. The local was twenty minutes behind it. Old Simon and his grandchild were on the local to the bridge. An hour later they came down to the city on the train which brought the wounded passengers. I had this that night from the old man’s own lips. I repeat to you, sir, the boy Ralph is Simon Craft’s grandson, and I know it.”

In the outer room there was a slight noise as of some person drawing in his breath sharply and with pain. Neither of the men heard it. Rhyming Joe was too intent on giving due weight to his pretended disclosure; Lawyer Sharpman was too busy studying the chances of that disclosure being true. It was evident that the young man was acquainted with his subject. If his story were false he had it too well learned to admit of successful contradiction. It was therefore of no use to argue with him, but Sharpman thought he would see what was lying back of this.

“Well,” he said, calmly, “I don’t see how this affects our case. Suppose you can prove your story to be true; what then?”

The young man did not answer immediately. He took a package of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Sharpman. It was declined. He lighted one for himself, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and began to study the ceiling through the rings of blue smoke which came curling from his nostrils. Finally he said: “What would you consider my silence on this subject worth, for a period of say twenty-four hours?”

“I do not know that your silence will be of material benefit to us.”

“Well, perhaps not. My knowledge, however, may be of material injury to you.”

“In what way?”

“By the disclosure of it to your opponent.”

“What would he do with it?”

“Use it as evidence in this case.”

“Well, had you not better go to him?”

Rhyming Joe laid his cigarette aside, straightened up in his chair, and again faced the lawyer squarely.

“Look here, Mr. Sharpman,” he said, “you know, as well as I do, that the knowledge I hold is extremely dangerous to you. I can back up my assertion by any amount of corroborative detail. I am thoroughly familiar with the facts, and if I were to go on the witness-stand to-morrow for the defendant in this suit, your hopes and schemes would vanish into thin air. Now, I have no great desire to do this; I have still a friendly feeling left for Old Simon, and as for the boy, he is a nice fellow, and I would like to see him prosper. But in my circumstances, as they are at present, I do not feel that I can afford to let slip an opportunity to turn an honest penny.

“If a penny saved is a penny earned,
Then a penny found is a penny turned.”

Sharpman was still looking calmly at his visitor. “Well?” he said, inquiringly.

“Well, to make a long story short, if I get two hundred dollars to-night, I keep my knowledge of Simon Craft and his grandson to myself. If I don’t get two hundred dollars to-night, I go to Goodlaw the first thing to-morrow morning and offer my services to the defence. I propose to make the amount of a witness fee out of this case, at any rate.”

“You are attempting a game that will hardly work here,” said Sharpman, severely. “You will find yourself earning two hundred dollars for the state in the penitentiary of your native city if you persist in that course.”

“Very well, sir; you have heard my story, you have my ultimatum. You are at liberty to act or not to act as you see fit. If you do not choose to act it will be unnecessary for me to prolong my visit. I will have to rise early in the morning, in order to get the first Wilkesbarre train, and I must retire without delay.

“The adage of the early bird,
My soul from infancy has stirred,
And since the worm I sorely need
I’ll practise, now, that thrifty creed.”

Rhyming Joe reached for his hat.

Sharpman was growing anxious. There was no doubt that the fellow might hurt them greatly if he chose to do so. His story was not an improbable one. Indeed, there was good reason to believe that it might be true. His manner tended to impress one with its truth. But, true or false, it would not do to have the statement get before that jury. The man must be detained, to give time for further thought.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” said Sharpman, mildly; “let’s talk this matter over a little more. Perhaps we can reach an amicable understanding.”

Rhyming Joe detected, in an instant, the weakening on the lawyer’s part, and increased his audacity accordingly.

“You have heard my proposition, Mr. Sharpman,” he said; “it is the only one I shall make, and I must decline to discuss the matter further. My time, as I have already intimated, is of considerable value to me.”

“But how can you expect me to decide on your proposition without first consulting my client? He is in Wilkesbarre. Give us time. Wait until morning; I’ll go down on the first train with you.”

“No, I don’t care to have Old Simon consulted in this matter; if I had cared to, I should have consulted him myself; I know where he is. Besides, his interest in the case is very small compared with yours. You are to get the lion’s share, that is apparent, and you, of course, are the one to pay the cost. It is necessary that I should have the money to-night; after to-night it will be too late.”

Sharpman arose and began pacing up and down the room. He was inclined to yield to the man’s demand. The Burnham suit was drawing rapidly to a successful close. If this fellow should go on the witness-stand and tell his plausible story, the entire scheme might be wrecked beyond retrieval. But it was very annoying to be bulldozed into a thing in this way. The lawyer’s stubborn nature rebelled against it powerfully. It would be a great pleasure, he thought, to defy the fellow and turn him into the street. Then a new fear came to him. What would be the effect of this man’s story, with its air of genuineness, on the mind of so conscientious a boy as Ralph? He surely could not afford to have Ralph’s faith interfered with; that would be certain to bring disaster.

He made up his mind at once. Turning quickly on his heel to face his visitor, he said:

“I want you to understand that I’m not afraid of you nor of your story, but I don’t want to be bothered with you. Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you one hundred dollars in cash to-night, on condition that you will leave this town by the first train in the morning, that you’ll not go to Wilkesbarre, that you’ll not come back here inside of a year, and that you’ll not mention a word of this matter to any one so long as you shall live.”

The lawyer spoke with determined earnestness. Rhyming Joe looked up at the ceiling as if in doubt.

Finally, he said:

“Split the difference and call it even,
A hundred and fifty and I’ll be leavin’.”

Sharpman was whirling the knob of his safe back and forth. At last he flung open the safe-door.

“I don’t care,” he said, looking around at his visitor, “whether your story is true or false. We’ll call it true if that will please you. But if I ever hear of your lisping it again to any living person, I give you my word for it you shall be sorry. I pay you your own price for your silence; now I want you to understand that I’ve bought it and it’s mine.”

He had taken a package of bank-notes from a drawer in his safe, had counted out a portion of them, and now handed them to Rhyming Joe.

“Certainly,” said the young man, “certainly; no one can say that I have ever failed to keep an honest obligation; and between you and me there shall be the utmost confidence and good faith.

“Though woman’s vain, and man deceives,
There’s always honor among gentlemen.

“I beg your pardon! it’s the first time in fifteen years that I have failed to find an appropriate rhyming word; but the exigencies of a moment, you will understand, may destroy both rhyme and reason.”

He was folding the bills carefully and placing them in a shabby purse while Sharpman looked down on him with undisguised ill will.

“Now,” said the lawyer, “I expect that you will leave the city on the first train in the morning, and that you will not stop until you have gone at least a hundred miles. Here! here’s enough more money to pay your fare that far, and buy your dinner”; and he held out, scornfully, toward the young man, another bank-bill.

Rhyming Joe declined it with a courteous wave of his hand, and, rising, began, with much dignity, to button his coat.

“I have already received,” he said, “the quid pro quo of the bargain. I do not sue for charity nor accept it. Reserve your financial favors for the poor and needy.

“Go find the beggar crawling in the sun,
Or him that’s worse;
But don’t inflict your charity on one
With well filled purse.”

Sharpman looked amused and put the money back into his pocket. Then a bit of his customary politeness returned to him.

“I shall not expect to see you in Scranton again for some time, Mr. Cheekerton,” he said, “but when you do come this way, I trust you will honor me with a visit.”

“Thank you, sir. When I return I shall expect to find that your brilliant scheme has met with deserved success; that old Craft has chuckled himself to death over his riches; and that my young friend Ralph is happy in his new home, and contented with such slight remnant of his fortune as may be left to him after you two are through with it. By the way, let me ask just one favor of you on leaving, and that is that the boy may never know what a narrow escape he has had to-night, and may never know that he is not really the son of Robert Burnham. It would be an awful blow to him to know that Old Simon is actually his grandfather; and there’s no need, now, to tell him.

“‘Where ignorance is bliss,’ you know the rest,
And a still tongue is generally the best.”

“Oh, no, indeed! the boy shall hear nothing of the kind from me. I am very much obliged to you, however, for the true story of the matter.”

Under the circumstances Sharpman was outdoing himself in politeness, but he could not well outdo Rhyming Joe. The young man extended his hand to the lawyer with a respectful bow.

“I shall long remember your extreme kindness and courtesy,” he said.

“Henceforth the spider of a friendship true,
Shall weave its silken web twixt me and you.”

My dear sir, I wish you a very good night!”

“Good-night!”

The young man placed his silk hat jauntily on his head, and passed through the outer office, whistling a low tune; out at the street door and down the walk; out into the gay world of dissipation, down into the treacherous depths of crime; one more of the many who have chained bright intellects to the chariot wheels of vice, and have been dragged through dust and mire to final and to irretrievable disaster.

A moment later a boy arose from a chair in the outer office and staggered out into the street. It was Ralph. He had heard it all.