Sharpman was whirling the k.n.o.b 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 b.u.t.ton 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE ANGEL WITH THE SWORD.

Ralph had entered the office just as Rhyming Joe reached the point of his disclosure. He had heard him declare, in emphatic tones: "I say the boy Ralph is not Robert Burnham's son."

It was as though some one had struck him. He dropped into a chair and sat as if under a spell, listening to every word that was uttered. He was powerless to move or to speak until the man who had told the cruel story had pa.s.sed by him in the dark and gone down the walk into the street.

Then he arose and followed him; he did not know just why, but it seemed as if he must see him, if only to beg him to declare that the story he had just heard him tell was all a lie. And yet Ralph believed that Rhyming Joe had told the truth. Why should he not believe him when Sharpman himself had put such faith in the tale as to purchase the man's silence with money. But if the story were true, if it _were_ true, then it should be known; Mrs. Burnham should know it, Mr.

Goodlaw should know it, Mr. Sharpman should not conceal it, Rhyming Joe must not be allowed to depart until he had told it on the witness-stand, in open court. He must see him, Ralph thought; he must find him, he must, in some way, compel him to remain. The sound of the man's footsteps had not yet died away as the boy ran after him along the street, but half-way down the block his breath grew short, his heart began to pound against his breast, he pressed his hand to his side as if in pain, and staggered up to a lamp-post for support.

When he recovered sufficiently to start on, Rhyming Joe had pa.s.sed out of both sight and hearing. Ralph hurried down the street until he reached Lackawanna Avenue, and there he stopped, wondering which way to turn. But there was no time to lose. If the man should escape him now he might never see him again, he might never hear from his lips whether the dreadful story was really and positively true. He felt that Rhyming Joe would not lie to him to-night, nor deceive him, nor deny his request to make the truth known to those who ought to know it, if he could only find him and speak to him, and if the man could only see how utterly miserable he was. He plunged in among the Sunday evening saunterers, and hurried up the street, looking to the right and to the left, before and behind him, hastening on as he could. Once he thought he saw, just ahead, the object of his search. He ran up to speak to him, looked into his face, and--it was some one else.

Finally he reached the head of the avenue and turned up toward the Dunmore road. Then he came back, crossed over, and went down on the other side of the street. Block after block he traversed, looking into the face of every man he met, glancing into doorways and dark corners, making short excursions into side streets; block after block, until he reached the Hyde Park bridge. He was tired and disheartened as he turned back and wondered what he should do next. Then it occurred to him that he had promised to meet Mr. Sharpman that night. Perhaps the lawyer was still waiting for him. Perhaps, if he should appeal to him, the lawyer would help him to find Rhyming Joe, and to make the truth known before injustice should be done.

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 pa.s.sing 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, pa.s.sed 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.

What was to be done now? He had failed to find Rhyming Joe, he had failed to find Lawyer Sharpman. The early morning train would carry both of them beyond his reach. Suppose it should? Suppose the case at Wilkesbarre should go on to its predicted end, and the jury should bring in their expected verdict, what then?

Why, then the law would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son; the t.i.tle, the position, the fortune would all be his; Mrs. Burnham would take him to her home, and lavish love and care upon him; all this unless--unless he should tell what he had heard. Ah! there was a thought. Suppose he should not tell, suppose he should let the case go on just as though he had not known the truth, just as though he had stayed at home that night instead of coming to the city; who would ever be the wiser? who would ever suspect him of knowing that the verdict was unjust? He might yet have it all, all, if only he would hold his tongue. His heart beat wildly with the thought, his breath came in gasps, something in his throat seemed choking him. But that would be wrong--he knew it would be wrong, and wicked; a sense of shame came over him, and he cast the tempting thought aside.

No, there was but one thing for him, as an honest boy, to do, and that was to tell what he had heard.

If he could tell it soon enough to hold the verdict back, so much the better, if he could not, still he had no right to keep his knowledge to himself--the story must be known. And then farewell to all his hopes, his plans, his high ambition. No beautiful home for him now, no loving mother nor winsome sister nor taste of any joy that he had thought to know. It was hard to give them up, it was terrible, but it must be done.

He fell to thinking of his visit to his mother. It seemed to him as though it were something that had taken place very long ago. It was like a sweet dream that he had dreamed as a little boy. He wondered if it was indeed only that afternoon that it had all occurred. It had been so beautiful, so very beautiful; and now! Could it be that this boy, sitting weak, wretched, disconsolate, on the steps of this deserted office, in the night-time, was the same boy whose feet had scarcely touched the ground that afternoon for buoyant happiness? Oh, it was dreadful! dreadful! He began to wonder why he did not cry. He put up his hands to see if there were any tears on his cheeks, but he found none. Did only people cry who had some gentler cause for tears?

But the thought of what would happen if he should keep his knowledge to himself came back again into his mind. He drove it out, but it returned. It had a fascination about it that was difficult to resist.

It would be so easy simply to say nothing. And who would ever know that he was not Mrs. Burnham's son? Why, Old Simon would know, but he would not dare to tell; Lawyer Sharpman would know, but he would not dare to tell; Rhyming Joe would know, but he would not dare to tell, at least, not for a long time. And suppose it should be known after a year, after two years or longer, who would blame him? he would be supposed to have been ignorant of it all; he would be so established by that time in his new home that he would not have to leave it. They might take his property, his money, all things else, but he knew that if he could but live with Mrs. Burnham for a year she would never let him leave her, and that was all he cared for at any rate.

But then, he himself would know that he had no right there; he would have to live with this knowledge always with him, he would have to walk about with an ever present lie on his mind and in his heart. He could not do that, he would not do it; he must disclose his knowledge, and make some effort to see that justice was not mocked. But it was too late to do anything to-night. He wondered how late it was. He thought of Bachelor Billy waiting for him at home. He feared that the good man would be worried on account of his long absence. A clock in a church tower not far away struck ten. Ralph started to his feet, went out into the street again, and up toward home.

But Uncle Billy! what would Uncle Billy say when he should tell him what he had heard? Would he counsel him to hold his tongue? Ah, no!

the boy knew well the course that Uncle Billy would mark out for him.