“This mine that is said to be worked out, Mr. Balfour, and which you have purchased by mere accident, as being in the same lot with your proposed building-ground, will, I have reason to believe, turn out a gold mine.”

“You don’t say so!  I did not know that there was gold in Cornwall.”

“There is as good, or at least there are metals that bring gold—­tin and copper; and Wheal Danes is full of the latter.  The old Romans worked it for tin only, and left their prize just as it was getting to be worth having.  There’s a copper vein in the lowest level of that mine that may be worth all the old Carew estate.”

“And you have seen this vein?”

“No; but my wife’s father, John Trevethick, as good a judge as any man on earth, or under it, saw it, and told me of its existence on his death-bed—­”

“When did he die, and how?  Was it a lingering, painful death, or was he struck down suddenly?” interposed Balfour.  “I ask,” added he, hastily, for Solomon looked up in wonder at his companion’s vehemence, “because the credibility of such a story as you tell me would depend upon the state of the man’s brain.”

“He did die a painful and a lingering death, but his wits were clear enough,” answered Solomon.  “It was ten years ago, and more, but I mind it as well as though it was but yesterday—­indeed, I’ve thought of little else since.  ’The best legacy I have to leave you, Sol, lies in these last words of mine,’ said he; ’so do you listen, and lay them to heart.’  Then he told me how, as a boy, he had once explored Wheal Danes in play with other boys, and found the copper lode in a certain spot.  He was not so young even then but that he knew the value of such a find, and he had held his tongue; and though he visited the place pretty often—­for he couldn’t help that—­he kept the secret close from that time until his death.”

“He had never told any other person but yourself, you think?” inquired Balfour, curiously.

“No one to speak of.  There was one fellow who had an inkling of the thing, it seems, but he is dead now.  I read of it in the newspaper quite lately.  He died in jail, or rather in escaping from it, and had never been in a position to profit by his suspicion.  You may say, in fact, that not a living soul besides John Trevethick ever knew this secret.  For fifty years he strove to possess himself of this mine; he even offered for it, valueless as it was thought to be, four times the money you did; only Carew was mad and obstinate; and now, for ten years, I have had my own eyes fixed upon it, and got the earliest news of when it was in the market, as I thought, when, here, without a hint to guide you, a whiff of fortune blows it to your hand.  It’s a hard case I call it—­devilish hard.”

“Well, it is hard,” said Balfour; “that is, supposing all you say is true.  But frankly, my good Sir, I don’t believe you.  I mean no offense; but, since you have not seen the lode with your own eyes, you must pardon me for doubting its existence.”