“As in the present instance, for example,” remarked the guest, with an imperturbable smile.

“I am coming to the point, Mr. Balfour—­once for all.  I will give you a thousand pounds down for that Crompton lot—­twice the money that you gave for it within a month; that’s twelve hundred per cent, per annum.”

Balfour shook his head.  “I am not a religious man, my dear Sir—­far from it.  But I believe, like Miss Joanna yonder, in inspirations:  all my whims are inspirations, and therefore sacred.  It was an inspiration that made me buy Wheal Danes, and I mean to keep it.  If you offered me ten thousand pounds, I’d keep it.”

Solomon was silent for a while, his heavy brows knit in thought; then once again he advanced to the attack.  “You may keep it, and yet share the profit, Mr. Balfour.”

“The profit?”

“Ay, the profit.  I told you I was going to be frank with you, but you would never guess how frank.  I am about to put thousands a year into your pocket, on condition that you will let me fill my own at the same rate.  We were talking of partnerships just now; let us be partners in Wheal Danes.”

“Balfour and Coe sounds natural enough,” returned the other, coolly.  “But I must hear your plan.”

“My plan is a secret—­invaluable, indeed, as such—­but which, once told, will be worth nothing—­that is, to me.”

“You may do as you like, my friend, about revealing it,” yawned Mr. Balfour.  “I care nothing for your plan; only, until I hear it I stick to my plot, my lot, my acreage.  Tell me the whole story without reservation—­don’t attempt to deceive me on the slightest point—­and then you shall have your way.  We will divide this land of gold between us, or, as seems to me much more likely, browse like twin donkeys on its crop of thistles.”

“I have nothing but your bare word to trust to,” said Solomon, doubtfully; “but still, I must risk it.  Come, it’s a bargain.  Then, here’s my hand upon it.”

“Never mind my hand, my good friend,” returned the other, coolly.  “In the part of the world from which I hailed last, folks didn’t shake hands, and I’ve fallen out of the habit.  Come, give us this story of Wheal Danes.”

“It’s a very old one, Mr. Balfour.  The plot of ground you purchased gets its strange name from an ancient tin mine that is comprised in it, once worked by the Romans, but disused since their time.  There are many such in Cornwall.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Balfour, while the other sipped his glass.  It was curious to contrast the grave and earnest manner of the host with the careless and uninterested air of his guest, who presently, as the narrative proceeded, leaned his face upon his hand and gazed into the fire, an occasional glance sideways at his companion through his fingers alone testifying that his attention was still preserved.  He never stirred a limb nor winked an eyelid when Solomon came out with his great secret.