He turned to those who stood near by, and
whispered, sadly:--
"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.
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