Richard laughed long and loud.  The echoes of his ghastly mirth died slowly away, and when his voice was heard again it was stern and solemn.  “It is my turn at last, man; I am the judge to-day, as you were the witness nineteen years ago who doomed me wrongfully to shame and misery.  Night and day I have had this hour in my mind; the thought of it has been my only joy—­in chains and darkness, in toil and torment, fasting and wakeful on my prison pillow, I have thought of nothing else.  I did not know how it would come about, but I was sure that it would come.  You swore falsely once that I was a thief; I am now about to be a murderer, and your whitening bones will not be able to witness against me.”

“I never swore it, Mr. Yorke,” pleaded Solomon, passionately.

“Your memory is defective,” answered Richard, gloomily; “you forget that I was in court myself on that occasion.  You did your very worst to blacken me before judge and jury, and you succeeded.”

“But it was Trevethick—­it was father-in-law who urged me to do it; it was indeed.”

“I know it,” replied the other, coldly; “he was a greater villain than yourself, but unhappily an older one.  Death has robbed me of him, and made my vengeance incomplete.  Still there is something left for me.  While you die slowly here—­But no; I shall wait at Turlock for that to happen.  A strong man like you, who have rats to live upon, may last ten days, perhaps.  Well, when you are dead, I shall return to your London house, and lead your son to ruin.  You permitted me to begin the work in hopes of getting half this mine; I shall finish it while you are in sole possession of the whole of it.”

“Devil!” cried Solomon, furiously.

“The appellation is a true one, my good Sir; but I was a man once.  Evil is now my good, thanks to your teaching.  Look at me—­look at me, and see what you have brought me to at eight-and-thirty!  You almost drove me mad, and it was easy, for I had the Carew blood in my veins; but I contrived to keep my wits for the enjoyment of this hour.  I feel very old, and have few pleasures left, you see.  It is impossible, unfortunately, to return here and see you rot; there would be danger in it; just the least risk in the world of somebody coming here to look for us.  I must be off now, too, for there is a worthy man sitting up for me at the inn, and I have got to take this ladder back to Gethin.”

A cry of mingled rage and despair burst forth from Richard’s foe.

“What! you had calculated upon the absence of that ladder producing suspicion?  It is curious how great wits jump together:  that had also struck me.  I shall take it back, for I well know where it ought to be; I am quite familiar with your house at Gethin, as you may remember, perhaps.  You may keep the lantern, which will not be missed; but, if you will take my advice, you will put out the light, to preserve the candle—­as an article of food.  Put it somewhere where the rats can not eat it, and it may prolong your torments half a day.  You can also eat the horn of the lantern, but you will doubtless preserve that for a bonne bouche.  You are not superstitious, else I would suggest that your father-in-law’s spirit is exceedingly likely to haunt that northeastern corner down yonder.”