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Visual C#® HOW TO PROGRAM
SIXTH EDITION

Paul Deitel

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In memory of William Siebert, Professor Emeritus of Electrical Engineering
and Computer Science at MIT:

Your use of visualization techniques in

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Contents
1. Preface xxiii

2. Before You Begin xxxvii

1. 1 Introduction to Computers, the Internet and Visual C# 1

1. 1.1 Introduction 2

2. 1.2 Computers and the Internet in Industry and Research 2

3. 1.3 Hardware and Software 5

1. 1.3.1 Moore’s Law 5

2. 1.3.2 Computer Organization 6

4. 1.4 Data Hierarchy 7

5. 1.5 Machine Languages, Assembly Languages and High-Level

Languages 10

6. 1.6 Object Technology 11

7. 1.7 Internet and World Wide Web 13

8. 1.8 C# 15

1. 1.8.1 Object-Oriented Programming 16

2. 1.8.2 Event-Driven Programming 16

3. 1.8.3 Visual Programming 16

4. 1.8.4 An International Standard 16

 5. 1.8.5 C# on Other Platforms 17

6. 1.8.6 Internet and Web Programming 17

7. 1.8.7 Asynchronous Programming with async and await 17

8. 1.8.8 Other Key Programming Languages 18

9. 1.9 Microsoft’s .NET 20

1. 1.9.1 .NET Framework 20

2. 1.9.2 Common Language Runtime 20

3. 1.9.3 Platform Independence 21

4. 1.9.4 Language Interoperability 21

10. 1.10 Microsoft’s Windows® Operating System 21

11. 1.11 Visual Studio Integrated Development Environment 23

12. 1.12 Painter Test-Drive in Visual Studio Community 23

2. 2 Introduction to Visual Studio and Visual Programming 33

1. 2.1 Introduction 34

2. 2.2 Overview of the Visual Studio Community 2015 IDE 34

1. 2.2.1 Introduction to Visual Studio Community 2015 34

2. 2.2.2 Visual Studio Themes 35

3. 2.2.3 Links on the Start Page 35

4. 2.2.4 Creating a New Project 36

5. 2.2.5 New Project Dialog and Project Templates 37

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The King of
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KING OF

DIAMONDS: A TALE OF MYSTERY AND ADVENTURE ***
THE KING OF DIAMONDS
A Tale of Mystery and Adventure
 By LOUIS TRACY
Author of "The Wings of the Morning," "The
Pillar of Light," Etc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
Copyright 1904.
BY
EDWARD J. CLODE.
"INSTANT ACTION IS WORTH A CENTURY OF
DIPLOMACY."
 CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. No. 3, Johnson's Mews 5
II. On the Edge of the Precipice 19
III. What the Meteor Contained 32
IV. Isaacstein 45
V. Perplexing a Magistrate 60
VI. A Game of Hazard 73
VII. A Business Transaction 87
VIII. The Transition 105
IX. A Decisive Battle 122
X. A Step Higher 136
XI. In Clover 151
XII. The Close of One Epoch 165
XIII. After Long Years 177
XIV. An Adventure 192
XV. A Face From the Past 208
XVI. The Master Fiend 223
XVII. The Inmates of the Grange House 238
XVIII. "Revenge is Mine; I Will Repay" 253
XIX. Philip Anson Redivivus 266
XX. Nemesis 281
XXI. The Rescue 293
XXII. A Settlement of Old Scores 307
THE KING OF DIAMONDS.
 CHAPTER I.
No. 3, Johnson's Mews.
"Is there no hope, doctor?"
"Absolutely none—now."
"If she had gone to the—the workhouse infirmary—would she have
lived?"
The doctor paused. The gulp before that hateful word was not lost
on him. He tried professional severity, and bestowed some care on
the buttoning of a glove.
"I am surprised," he said, "that an excellent woman like your mother
should encourage your feelings of—er—repugnance toward—er——
Confound it, boy, have you no relatives or friends?"
"No, sir. We are alone in the world."
"And hard up, eh?"
The boy dug a hand into a pocket with the stolid indifference of
despair. He produced two shillings and some pennies. He picked out
the silver, and the man reddened in protest.
"Don't be stupid, Philip. That is your name, is it not? When I want
my fee I will ask for it. Your mother needs a nurse, wine, chicken
broth. You are old enough to realize that a doctor practicing in a
neighborhood like this might want such things himself and whistle
for them. But in the—er—infirmary they are provided by the State."
"Would my mother have lived had she consented to be taken there a
month ago?"
Again the man wondered at the stony persistence of the questioner,
a fearless-looking, active boy of fifteen, attired in worn clothes too
small for him, and wearing an old pair of boots several sizes too
large. The strong, young face, pinched with vigils and privation, the
large, earnest eyes, heavy with unshed tears, the lips, quivering in
their resolute compression over a chin that indicated great strength
of character, appealed far more to the doctor than the whimpering
terror with which the children of the poor usually meet the grim
vision of death.
The wrestle with the glove ceased and a kindly hand rested on
Philip's shoulder.
"No," came the quiet answer. "May God help you, she would not
have lived."
"God does not help anybody," was the amazing retort.
The doctor was shocked, visibly so.
"That is a foolish and wicked statement," he said, sternly. "Do not let
your mother hear such awful words. She has lived and will die a true
Christian. I have never met a woman of greater natural charm and
real piety. She has suffered so much that she merits the life eternal.
It is a reward, not a punishment. Cast away these terrible thoughts;
go, rather, and kneel by her side in prayer."
For an instant the great brown eyes blazed fiercely at him.
"Am I to pray that my mother shall be taken from me?"
"Even that, if it be God's will."
The gleam of passion yielded to utter helplessness. The boy again
brought forth his tiny store of money.
"Surely," he said, "I can buy some small amount of wine. In the
shops they sell things in tins that make chicken broth, don't they? I
have a fire and a kettle. Would you mind telling me——"
"There, there! You go to your mother, and endeavor to cheer her up.
I will see what I can do. What! Would you argue with me? Go at
once; I insist. Listen, she is calling for you!"
In that poor tenement there were no secrets. A rickety staircase,
crudely built against the retaining wall of the only living room on the
ground floor, led steeply to an apartment above, and culminated in
an opening that suggested a trapdoor. The walls, roughly paneled,
were well provided with shelves and pegs. The back door was
fastened with a latch, a contrivance rarely seen in the London of to-
day. The front window looked out into a badly-paved court girt by
tumbledown stables. A smaller window at the back revealed a dismal
yard darkened by lofty walls. Although little more than a stone's
throw removed from the busy Mile End Road, the place was
singularly quiet. It was already dead, and only waited the coming of
men with pickaxes and crowbars to sweep away the ruins.
The boy heard his name whispered rather than spoken. The sound
galvanized him into vivid consciousness.
"Doctor," he said, earnestly, "you will come back?"
"Yes, yes; within half an hour. Tell your mother to expect me."
Philip ran up the stairs. Long practice had enabled him to move with
a minimum of noise. It was pitiful to see the manner in which he
emerged, with stealthy activity, into the creaking loft above. Here, at
first glance, there was an astonishing degree of comfort. Odd pieces
of worn carpet, neatly joined, covered the floor. The two windows,
facing only to the front of the dwelling, were curtained. The
whitewashed walls were almost hidden by cuttings from the colored
periodicals published during the previous Christmas season. A screen
divided the room into two compartments, each containing a tiny
bed. On one of these, propped up with pillows, lay the wasted figure
of a woman over whose face the shadows were falling fast. The
extreme thinness, the waxen pallor, the delicate texture of
debilitated skin and unnatural brilliancy of the eyes, gave her a
remarkably youthful appearance. This fantastic trick of death in life
accentuated the resemblance between mother and son. The boy,
too, was sharply outlined by hunger, and, in the fading light of a
March day, the difference between the dread tokens of approaching
collapse and the transient effects of a scanty regimen on a vigorous
youth was not readily distinguishable.
"Do you want anything, mother dear?" said the boy, laying his hand
tenderly on the clammy forehead.
"Only to ask you, Phil, what it was that the doctor told you."
The voice was low and sweet—the diction that of an educated
woman. The boy, too, though his tones were strong and harsh,
spoke with the accent of good breeding. His manner and words
gained some distinction from a slight touch of French elegance and
precision. This was only noticeable in repose. When excited, or
moved to deep feeling, the Continental veneer acquired at the Lycée
in Dieppe instantly vanished, and he became the strenuous,
emphatic Briton he undoubtedly was by birth and breeding.
"He said, dearest, that what you wanted was some good wine—nice
things to eat. He is an awfully fine chap, and I am afraid I was rude
to him, but he didn't seem to mind it a bit, and he is coming back
soon with chicken broth and port wine, and I don't know what."
His brave words were well meant, but the mother's heart understood
him too well to be deceived. A thin hand caught his wrist and feebly
drew him nearer.
"You say you were rude to him, Phil? How can that be possible?
What did you say or do to warrant such a description?"
He hesitated for a moment. With rare self-control in one so young,
he fiercely determined not to communicate his own despair to his
mother. So he laughed gently.
"We are so jolly hard up, you know, and it sounded strange in my
ears to talk about expensive luxuries which I could not buy. He has
often told us, dear, that you would be better cared for in the
infirmary. I am afraid now he was right, only we couldn't bear—to be
parted. Could we, mother?"
Not all his valor could control his tremulous lips. A beautiful smile
illumined the face of the invalid.
"So you are trying to hoodwink me, Phil, for the first time. I know
what the doctor said. He told you that I could not recover, and that I
had not long to live; in a word, that I am dying."
Then the boy gave way utterly. He flung himself down by the side of
the bed and buried his face in the coverlet.
"Oh, mother, mother!" he wailed, and his passionate sobs burst forth
with alarming vehemence. The poor woman vainly strove to soothe
him. She could not move, being paralyzed, but her fingers twined
gently in his hair, and she gasped, brokenly:
"Phil, darling, don't make it harder for me. Oh, calm yourself, my
dear one, if only for my sake. I have so much to say to you, and
perhaps so little time. Be strong, Philip. Be strong and brave, and all
will be well with you. I know you will miss me—we have been all in
all to each other since your father's death. But my memory must be
sweet, not bitter to you. When you think of me I want the
recollection to inspire you to do that which is right regardless of
consequences, to strive always for honor and for the approbation of
your own conscience. My own dear boy, we must bow to the will of
God. We have indeed been sorely tried, you far more than I, for I
can look back on years of perfect happiness with a loving husband
and a delightful child, whereas you have been plunged into poverty
and misery at an age when life should be opening before you with
every promise of a successful career. Perhaps, Phil, your trials have
come to you early, as mine have found me late. I trust I have borne
reverses of health and fortune with patience and resignation. My
present sufferings will be a lasting joy to me if, in the life to come, I
can know that my example has been a stimulus to you amidst the
chances and changes of your career. Promise me, darling, that you
will resign yourself to the decrees of Providence even in the bitter
hour of our parting."
Her voice failed. Tears stood in her eyes. The knowledge came to
her anew that natural emotions can at times conquer all restraints.
The maternity strong within her clamored for the power to shield her
offspring from the dangers that would beset him. There was a
maddening pain in the thought that a few brief hours or minutes
might unclasp her arms from him forever.
It was Phil who first gave utterance to the wild protest in their souls.
"Mother," he mourned, bitterly, "I don't want to live without you. Let
us die together. If you cannot stay with me, then I swear——"
But a scream of terror, so shrill and vehement that it seemed to be
almost miraculous from so frail a form, froze the vow on his lips.
"Phil! What are you saying? Oh, my son, my son, do not break my
heart before I die. Kiss me, dearest. I am cold. I can scarce see you.
Come nearer. Let me look once more into your brave eyes. You will
be a great man, Phil. I know it. Who should know your character like
your mother? But you must have faith in God always. I have prayed
for you, and my prayers will surely be granted. I will watch over you.
If you are in danger my spirit will come back to you across the void.
We cannot be parted. Oh, God, it is impossible! You are the life of
my life. I am not dead while you still live."
Even as she spoke, her left hand and arm, hitherto untouched by the
cruel blight which had made her a helpless invalid during many
weary months, became numb and rigid. She was dying now, not
with the struggle against the king of terrors which often marks the
passing of humanity, but with a slow torpidity more akin to sleep.
Her brain was clear, but the stock of nervous force had sunk so low
that her few remaining words were spoken with difficulty. They were
mostly endearing expressions, appeals to her loved one to hope and
pray, to trust steadfastly in the all-wise power that would direct his
destiny. With the last flicker of existence the maternal instinct
became dominant again and she asked him not to forget her.
The boy could only murmur agonized appeals to the merciless
unseen not to rob him of the only being he held dear on earth, but
even in that awful moment he had the strength to cease his frantic
protests when they seemed to cause her pain, and he forced himself
to join her in prayer.
When the doctor brought a nurse and some small store of the much-
needed delicacies, Mrs. Anson was already unconscious.
The boy, aroused from frenzy by the steps on the stairs, shrieked
incoherently:
"I have killed my mother. See! She is dead. I killed her. I made her
cry. You told me to look after her until you returned. She cried and
screamed because I spoke so wildly. It is all my fault. I——"
"Hush! Your mother is not dead, but dying. Not all the skill of man
can save her. Let her die in peace."
No other words could have checked the wild torrent of lament that
surged from that wounded heart. So she still lived. There remained a
faint flicker of life. Not yet had she passed the dreadful barrier of
eternity. Through his blinding tears he thought he could discern a
smile on the worn face. The doctor watched Phil more narrowly than
the sunken frame on the bed. It was best that the paroxysm of grief
should go untrammeled. The nurse, a young woman unused as yet
to the inevitableness of death, moved timidly toward the windows
and adjusted the curtains to admit more light.
At last, when Phil's strength yielded to the strain of his sorrow and
the very force of his agony had spent itself, the doctor leaned over
the inanimate form and looked into the eyes.
"It has ended, Phil," he whispered. "Your mother is in heaven!"
In heaven! What a tocsin of woe in a message of faith! The boy
suddenly stood up. Hope was murdered within him. His tears ceased
and his labored breathing came under control with a mighty effort.
He stooped and kissed the pale cheeks twice.
"Good-by, mother," he said, and the dull pain in his voice was so
heartrending that the nurse's sympathies mastered her. She burst
out crying. Professional instinct came to the doctor's aid. He sharply
reprimanded the half-hysterical woman and sent her off on an
errand to bring those whose duty it is to render the last services to
frail mortality. The boy he led downstairs. He was a busy man, with
many claims on his time, but this strange youngster interested him,
and he resolved to turn the boy's thoughts forcibly away from the
all-absorbing horror of his mother's death.
"Have you a tumbler or a cup?" he said, sharply.
Phil handed him a tumbler. The doctor poured out some wine taken
from the nurse's basket, soaked a piece of bread in the liquor, and
gave it to the boy with an imperative command to eat it instantly.
Somewhat to his surprise, he was obeyed. While Phil was devouring
the food of which he stood so greatly in need, the doctor reviewed
the circumstances of this poverty-stricken household so far as they
were known to him. Mr. and Mrs. Anson had occupied a fairly good
position in Dieppe, where Philip's father was the agent of an old-
established London firm of coal shippers. About two years earlier,
both husband and wife were seriously injured in a motor car
accident. Mr. Anson sustained concussion of the brain, and
practically never regained his senses, though he lingered for some
weeks and was subjected to two operations. Mrs. Anson's spine was
damaged, with the result that she changed from a bright and
vigorous woman into a decrepit invalid doomed to early death from
slow paralysis.
When the great expenses attendant on these mishaps were paid,
she found herself not only absolutely poor, but rendered incapable of
the slightest effort to turn her many and varied talents to account in
order to earn a livelihood. She came to London, where her late
husband's employers generously gave her rent-free possession of
the tenement in which she was lying dead, helped her with funds to
furnish it modestly, and found a clerkship for Philip with a promise of
early promotion.
But the cup of sorrow is seldom left half filled. Barely had the widow
settled down to a hopeful struggle on behalf of her beloved son than
a quarrel between partners led to the sale of the firm's business to a
limited liability company. Economies were effected to make way for
salaried directors. Philip was dismissed, with several other junior
employees, and the stable yard was marked out as a suitable site for
the storage of coal required by the local factories.
This development took place early in the New Year, and the new
company allowed Mrs. Anson to occupy her tiny abode until the last
day of March. It was now March 5th, and how the widow and her
son had lived during the past two months the doctor could only
guess from the gradual depletion of their little store of furniture.
It was odd that such an intelligent and well-bred woman should be
so completely shut off from the rest of the world, and his first
question to Phil sought to determine this mystery.
"Surely," he said, "there is some one to whom you can appeal for
help. Your father and mother must have had some relatives—even
distant cousins—and, if they are written to, a friendly hand may be
forthcoming."
Philip shook his head. The mere taste of food had provoked a
ravenous appetite. He could not eat fast enough. The doctor stayed
him.
"Better wait a couple of hours, Phil, and then you can tackle a hearty
meal. That's the thing. I like to see such prompt obedience, but you
certainly have wonderful self-control for one so young. I may tell
you, to relieve present anxieties, that a few employees of your
father's firm have guaranteed the expenses of your mother's funeral,
and they also gave me a sovereign to tide you over the next few
days."
Funeral! The word struck with sledge-hammer force. Phil had not
thought of that. He remembered the dismal pomp of such events in
this squalid locality, the loud sobbing of women, the hard-faced
agony of men, the frightened curiosity of children. His mother, so
dear, so tender, so soft-cheeked—the bright, beautiful, laughing
woman of their life in Dieppe—to be taken away from him forever,
and permitted to fade slowly into nothingness in some dreadful
place, hidden from the sunshine and the flowers she loved! For the
first time he understood death. When his father was killed his
mother was left. Anxious tending on her dispelled the horror of the
greater tragedy. Now all was lost. The tears that he hated were
welling forth again, and he savagely bit his lip.
"You have been—very good—to us, doctor," he forced himself to say.
"If ever—I can repay you——"
"There, there, not a word! Bless my soul, yours is a difficult case."
Again the doctor tackled his glove. He glanced at his watch.
"Four o'clock! I am an hour late on my rounds. No, Phil. Don't go
upstairs. There are some women coming. Wait until they have
tended your mother. And—one last word. It will do you no good to
keep vigil by her side. Best think of her as living, not dead. You will
be grateful for my advice in after life."
The women arrived, coarse but kindly-hearted creatures. One of
them gave the boy a packet of letters.
"I found 'em under the dear lydy's pillow," she said. Neither poverty
nor death robbed Mrs. Anson of the respect paid to her by all who
came in contact with her.
He sat down, untied a string which bound the letters together, and
looked at the address on the first envelope. It bore his mother's
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