“This way, prisoner,” said a gruff voice.

Door after door, passage after passage; a labyrinth of stone and iron.  At last he was ushered into a small chamber, unlike any thing he had ever seen in his life.  His sleeping-room at the keeper’s lodge at Crompton was palatial compared with it.  The walls were stone; the floor of a shining brown, so that it looked wet, though it was not so.  His jailer-chamberlain pointed to a low-lying hammock, stretched upon two straps between the walls.  “There, tumble in,” he said; “you will have your bath in the morning.  Look alive!”

Richard obeyed him at once.  “Good-night, warder,” said he.

“Night!” grumbled the other; “it’s morn-in’.  A pretty time to be knockin’ up people at a respectable establishment.  If you want any thin’—­broiled bones, or deviled kidneys”—­for the man was a wag in his quaint way—­“ring this ’ere bell.  As for the other rules and regulations of her Majesty’s jail, you’ll learn them at breakfast-time.”

The door slammed behind him.

How the doors did slam in that place!  And Richard was left alone.  If, instead of the metal ewer of water that stood by his bed-head, there had been a glass of deadliest poison, he would have seized it greedily, and emptied it to the dregs.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE LETTER LOOK.

On the day that Richard left Gethin, which was itself an incident to keep the tongues of its gossips wagging for a good week, another occurrence took place in that favored neighborhood, and one of even more absorbing interest—­the workings of Dunloppel were suspended.  This, of course, was not a wholly unexpected catastrophe.  The new vein, after giving an exceedingly rich yield for some months, had of late, it was whispered, evinced signs of exhaustion, although the fact was not known that for several weeks the undertaking had been carried on at a loss.  Neither Trevethick nor Solomon, who were the principal proprietors, was the sort of man to play long at a losing game, or to send good money after bad; so, for the present, the pit was closed.  But Solomon believed in Dunloppel; contrary to his custom, he had not disposed of a single share when the mine was at a premium, and his stake in it was very large.

Only a few minutes after Richard had departed for Plymouth with his check, Solomon returned to the inn with thoughtful brow.

Trevethick was moodily smoking his pipe in the porch, still balancing the rival claims of his sons-in-law elect, and dissatisfied with both of them.  He did not share Solomon’s hopes, and he detested losing his money above every thing.  “Well, you’ve packed off all those fellows, I hope, that have been eating me out of house and home for these three weeks?”

“I’ve closed the mine, if that’s what you mean,” said Solomon.  “But” (he looked cautiously up at the windows of the inn, which were all open—­the guests were out in search of the picturesque, and Harry was on the tower, straining her eyes after Richard) “I want to have a word with you in private, Trevethick.”