She seemed too ill and weary to argue the matter, and Harry left her, as she thought, to repose.  No sooner was she gone, however, than the closed lids of Mrs. Basil were opened wide, and revealed a sleepless and unutterable woe.  Her sharp, pinched face showed pain and fear.  Her parched lips muttered unceasingly words like these, which were, perhaps, the ravings of her fevered brain:  “I am sure of it now, quite sure; those stags, those stags!  There is no room for hope.  His heart has become a stone, which no power can soften.  It is no use to speak, or rather I am like one in a dream who watches murder done, and can not cry out.”

CHAPTER XLII.

THE MINE AT MIDNIGHT.

Mr. Balfour—­for so we must call him now, since he is attired respectably, travels first-class, and, moreover, even looks like a gentleman—­did not go to the Midlands, as he had given out was his purpose, but took his ticket to Plymouth, to which place the railway had just extended in those days.  He bought neither book nor newspaper, but sat in the corner, with his hat drawn over his eyes, for the whole nine hours, thinking.  From Plymouth he posted to Turlock, where he arrived late at night, and without having broken fast since morning.  He took no pains either to divulge or conceal his name; he asked no questions, nor was asked any except “whether he preferred to sleep between sheets or blankets”—­for Turlock was still an out-of-the-way region, and the little inn about three-quarters of a century behind our modern caravansaries, with their “daily fly-bills” and “electric bells.”

After dinner, which he scarcely touched, he wandered out—­it was his habit to do so, as he told the hostler, who was also the night-chamberlain—­and did not return till long after midnight.  He observed, as he gave the man half a crown for sitting up for him to so late an hour, that the moon looked very fine upon the sea.

“You must be a painter, I guess, Sir,” said the hostler, with a grin of intelligence.

“Why?” asked Balfour, sharply.  “What makes you think that?”

“Well, Sir,” returned the man, apologetically, “I mean no offense; but it is always the gentlemen-painters—­or, at least, so they say at Gethin, and I wish more of ’em came here—­as is so free with their money, and so fond of the moon.”

“Lunatics, eh?” said the new arrival, with a loud, quick laugh.  “Well, I’m no painter, my friend.”

Then he took his candle and retired to his room, but not to bed.  He disarranged the bed-clothes and rumpled the pillow; then walked softly to and fro in his slippers until morning.  On the following day he made no attempt to visit his newly acquired property, but strolled about the harbor, or stood, in sheltered and, therefore, secluded places in the rocks, watching the winter sea.  His meals at the inn were sent down almost as they were served up, yet he showed no sign of weakness or fatigue, but in the evening sallied forth as before.  The night was very cloudy, with driving showers, and the landlady good-naturedly warned him of the danger of venturing on the cliff-path, which was narrow, and had been broken in places by a late storm.