“I came to have a squint at the paper, Doc,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I can’t go out with this blasted wheezing on me. Don’t want to die in my prime.” Essex threw the paper across the table at him. “There’s news to-night,” he said, taking up his book; “Shackleton’s dead.” The man stopped as if electrified. “Shackleton? Jake Shackleton?” he said in a loud voice. “Jake Shackleton,” answered Essex, surprised at the startled astonishment of his face. “Did you know him?” Harney snatched the paper and opened it with an unsteady hand. He ran his eyes over the lines under the black-lettered heading of the first page. “By gosh!” he said to himself, “so he is; so he is!” He sat down in the chair at the opposite side of the table, smoothed out the sheet and read the account slowly and carefully. “By gosh!” he said again when he had finished, “who’d a thought Jake’d go off like that!” “Did you know him?” repeated Essex. “Once up in the Sierra, when we was all mining up there.” He spoke absently and sat looking into the fire for a moment, then said: “It’s pretty tough luck to be whisked off that way when you just got everything in the palm of your hand.” Essex made no reply, and after a pause he added: “Between fifteen and twenty millions it says there,” indicating the paper, “and when I saw Jake Shackleton first you wouldn’t er hired him to sweep down the steps of _The Trumpet_ office. But that was twenty-five years ago at least.” “Oh, Shackleton was an able man. There’s no question about that. They were saying in the office to-night that twenty million is a conservative figure to put his money at.” “Who does it go to? Do you know that?” queried the man by the fire. “Widow and children, I suppose. There are two children. Don’t amount to anything, I believe.” “No; there are three.” Harney turned from the fire and looked over his shoulder. He was sitting in a hunched position, his back rounded, his chin depressed. His black eyes, that drew close to the nose, were instinct with eager cunning. The skin across the bridge of the nose was drawn in wrinkles. As he looked the wheezing of his disturbed breathing was distinctly audible. Essex was struck by the sly and malevolent intelligence of his face. “Three children!” he said. “Well, I’ve always heard the death of a bonanza king was the signal for a large crop of widows and orphans to take the field.” “There won’t be any widow this time. She’s dead. But the girl’s alive, and I’ve seen her.” He accompanied this remark with a second look, significant with the same malicious intensity of meaning. Then he rose to his feet and walked toward the door. “Good night, Doc,” he said as he reached it; “ain’t well enough to talk to-night.”