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. Sharpman."

The lawyer advanced to Craft, and shook hands with him in a very
friendly way. "Good-morning, sir," he said. "Will you step into my
office, sir?"

He ushered the old man into an inner room, and gave him an easy,
cushioned chair to sit in. Sharpman was nothing, if not gracious. Rich
and poor, alike, were met by him with the utmost cordiality. He had