"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.
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