“Let us say two, then,” returned the landlord, mockingly.  “Sell out two thousand pounds of this independent fortune of yours, that has been invested in the Deep Sea Cockle Mine, or in debentures of the Railway in the Air.  Let me see but two thousand pounds, Mr. Richard Yorke, and then—­and not before—­may you open your lips to me again respecting my daughter Harry.”  He turned upon his heel with a bitter laugh; while Richard, as white as the sketch-book he still held in his hand, remained speechless.  A perilous thought had taken possession of his mind—­a thought that it would have been better for him to have dropped down there dead than to have entertained, but it grew and grew apace within him like a foul weed.  Had his life of selfish pleasure angered the long-suffering gods, and, having resolved upon his ruin, were they already making him mad?  He ran after the old man, who did not so much as turn to look behind him, though he could not but have heard his rapid steps.  “Mr. Trevethick, I will do it,” he gasped out.

“Do what?” said the other, contemptuously, striding on.  “Go hang yourself, or jump off Gethin rock into the sea?”

“I will get you the money that you speak of—­the two thousand pounds.  You shall have it in your hand, and keep it for that matter, if you please.”

“What?” Unutterable astonishment stared out from the landlord’s face.  For the first time since the receipt of Carew’s letter he began to discredit its contents.  If this young fellow had really the immediate command of so large a sum, there was probably much more “behind him.”  He must either have a fortune in his own right, or if Carew had settled such a sum of money on him, he must have had a reason for it—­the very reason Richard had assigned.  And if so, Wheal Danes might be his to dispose of even yet.  But Trevethick was not the man to hint a doubt of his foregone conclusions.  “You have not got this money in your pocket, have you?” said he, with a short dry laugh.

“No, Sir; but I can get a check for it from my mother, in course of post.”

“A check!” cried the other, contemptuously, all his suspicions returning with tenfold force.  “I would not give one penny for such a check.”

“I will get it changed myself, Mr. Trevethick, at Plymouth.  The post has gone, but I will write to-morrow, and within the week—­”

“You shall not stay here a week, nor another twenty-four hours,” roared Trevethick.  “I have been made a fool of long enough.  I will not listen to another word.”

But he did listen, nevertheless.  No longer hampered by vague fears and difficulties, with which he knew not how to grapple, but with a distinct plan of operations before him, Richard’s eloquence was irresistible.  Deceit, if not habitual with him, had been practiced too often to lack the gloss of truth from his ready tongue.  He actually had a scheme for procuring the sum in question, and when he possessed confidence