He turned his steps in the direction of Sharpman's office, reached
it finally, went up the little walk, tried to open the door, and
found it locked. The lights were out, the lawyer had gone. Ralph was
very tired, and he sat down on the door-step to rest and to try to
think. He felt that he had made every effort to find Rhyming Joe and
had failed. To-morrow the man would be gone. Sharpman would go to
Wilkesbarre. The evidence in the Burnham case would be closed. The
jury would come into court and declare that he, Ralph, was Robert
Burnham's son--and it would be all a lie. Oh, no! he could not let
that be done. His whole moral nature cried out against it. He must
see Sharpman to-night and beg him to put a stop to so unjust a cause.
To-morrow it might be too late. He rose and started down the walk to
find the lawyer's dwelling. But he did not know in which direction to
turn. A man was passing along the street, and Ralph accosted him:--
"Please, can you tell me where Mr. Sharpman lives?" he asked.
"I don't know anything about him," replied the man gruffly, starting
on.
In a minute another man came by, and Ralph repeated his question.
"I don't know where he does live, sonny," said the man, "but I know
where he would live if I had my choice as to his dwelling-place; he'd
reside in the county jail," and this man, too, passed on.
Ralph went back and sat down on the steps again.
The sky had become covered with clouds, no stars were visible, and it
was very dark.
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