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.