"We are ready on the part of the plaintiff," replied Sharpman.

Goodlaw arose. "If it please the court," he said, "we are in the same position to-day that we were in on Sat.u.r.day night at the adjournment.

This matter has been, with us, one of investigation rather than of defence.

"Though we hesitate to accept a statement of fact from a man of Simon Craft's self-confessed character, yet the corroborative evidence seems to warrant a belief in the general truth of his story.

"We do not wish to offer any further contradictory evidence than that already elicited from the plaintiff's witnesses. I may say, however, that this decision on our part is due not so much to my own sense of the legal barrenness of our case as to my client's deep conviction that the boy Ralph is her son, and to her great desire that justice shall be done to him."

"In that case," said the judge, "I presume you will have nothing further to offer on the part of the plaintiff, Mr. Sharpman?"

"Nothing," replied that gentleman, with an involuntary, smile of satisfaction on his lips.

"Then," said Goodlaw, who was still standing, "I suppose the evidence may be declared closed. I know of no--" He stopped and turned to see what the noise and confusion back by the entrance was about. The eyes of every one else in the room were turned in that direction also. A tipstaff was trying to detain Ralph at the door; he had not recognized him. But the boy broke away from him and hurried down the central aisle to the railing of the bar. In the struggle with the officer he had lost his hat, and his hair was tumbled over his forehead. His face was grimy and streaked with perspiration; his clothes were torn and dusty, and in his hand he still carried his shoes and stockings.

"Mr. Goodlaw!" he exclaimed in a loud whisper as he hastened across the bar, "Mr. Goodlaw, wait a minute! I ain't Robert Burnham's son! I didn't know it till yestaday; but I ain't--I ain't his son!"

The boy dropped, panting, into a chair. Goodlaw looked down on him in astonishment. Old Simon clutched his cane and leaned forward with his eyes flashing fire. Mrs. Burnham, her face pale with surprise and compa.s.sion, began to smooth back the hair from the lad's wet forehead.

The people back in the court-room had risen to their feet, to look down into the bar, and the constables were trying to restore order.

It all took place in a minute.

Then Ralph began to talk again:--

"Rhymin' Joe said so; he said I was Simon Craft's grandson; he told--"

Sharpman interrupted him. "Come with me, Ralph," he said, "I want to speak with you a minute." He reached out his hand, as if to lead him away; but Goodlaw stepped between them, saying, sternly:--

"He shall not go! The boy shall tell his story unhampered; you shall not crowd it back down his throat in private!"

"I say the boy shall go," replied Sharpman, angrily. "He is my client, and I have a right to consult with him."

This was true. For a moment Goodlaw was at his wit's end. Then, a bright idea came to him.

"Ralph," he said, "take the witness-stand."

Sharpman saw that he was foiled.

He turned to the court, white with pa.s.sion.

"I protest," he exclaimed, "against this proceeding! It is contrary to both law and courtesy. I demand the privilege of consulting with my client!"

"Counsel has a right to call the boy as a witness," said the judge, dispa.s.sionately, "and to put him on the stand at once. Let him be sworn."

Ralph pushed his way up to the witness-stand, and the officer administered the oath. He was a sorry-looking witness indeed.

At any other time or in any other place, his appearance would have been ludicrous. But now no one laughed. The people in the court-room began to whisper, "Hush!" fearing lest the noise of moving bodies might cause them to lose the boy's words.

To Goodlaw it was all a mystery. He did not know how to begin the examination. He started at a venture.

"Are you Robert Burnham's son?"

"No, sir," replied Ralph, firmly. "I ain't."

There was a buzz of excitement in the room. Old Simon sat staring at the boy incredulously. His anger had changed for the moment into wonder. He could not understand the cause of Ralph's action. Sharpman had not told him of the interview with Rhyming Joe--he had not thought it advisable.

"Who are you, then?" inquired Goodlaw.

"I'm Simon Craft's grandson." The excitement in the room ran higher.

Craft raised himself on his cane to lean toward Sharpman. "He lies!"

whispered the old man, hoa.r.s.ely; "the boy lies!"

Sharpman paid no attention to him.

"When did you first learn that you are Mr. Craft's grandson?"

continued the counsel for the defence.

"Last night," responded Ralph.

"Where?"

"At Mr. Sharpman's office."

The blood rushed suddenly into Sharpman's face. He understood it all now; Ralph had overheard.

"Who told you?" asked Goodlaw.

"No one told me, I heard Rhymin' Joe--"

Sharpman interrupted him.

"I don't know," he said, "if the court please, what this boy is trying to tell nor what wild idea has found lodgement in his brain; but I certainly object to the introduction of such hearsay evidence as counsel seems trying to bring out. Let us at least know whether the responsible plaintiff in this case was present or was a party to this alleged conversation."

"Was Mr. Craft present?" asked Goodlaw of the witness.

"No, sir; I guess not, I didn't hear 'im, any way."

"Did you see him?"

"No, sir; I didn't see 'im. I didn't see either of 'em."

"Where were you?"

"In the room nex' to the street."

"Where did this conversation take place?"

"In the back room."

"Was the door open?"