"I want your opinion of this paper," he said. "Is it drawn up in legal shape? Is it binding on the man that signed it?"
Sharpman took the paper, and read it carefully through; then he looked up at Craft in unfeigned surprise.
"My dear sir!" he said, "did you know that Robert Burnham died last night?"
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?"