to Balfour, whose name he also assumed, he himself put into execution.  He made a private offer for the disused mine, which was gladly accepted by those who had the disposal of the property, acting under the advice of Parson Whymper.  Trevethick, the only man that had attached any importance to the possession of it, was dead; and it was not likely that any one at the sale should bid one-half of the sum which this stranger was prepared to give for the mere gratification of his whim.  The mine itself, indeed, had scarcely been mentioned in the transaction; it merely formed a portion in the lot comprising the few barren acres on which this capricious purchaser had expressed his fancy to build a home.  “Disposed of by private contract” was the marginal note written in the auctioneer’s catalogue which dashed Solomon’s long-cherished hopes to the ground.

Richard staid on in the neighborhood to attend the sale.  It attracted an immense concourse; and no less than a guinea a head was the price of admission to those who explored the splendid halls of Crompton, discussing the character of its late owner, and retailing wild stories of his eccentricities.  Poor Parson Whymper, who had not a shilling left to him—­for Carew had died intestate, though, thanks to him, not absolutely a beggar—­was perhaps the only person present who felt a touch of regret.  He had asked for his patron’s signet-ring, as a keepsake, and this request had been refused on the part of the creditors; he wandered among the gay and jeering crowd like a ghost, little thinking that the one man who looked at him with a glance of pity was he whom he had once regarded as the heir of Crompton.  It was the general opinion now that the unhappy chaplain had been Carew’s evil genius, and had “led him on.”  Even Richard bestowed but that single glance upon him; he was looking in vain for the face that had so terrible an interest for himself.  He had not heard that Trevethick was dead, but he knew it was so the instant that his eyes fell upon Solomon Coe, and all his hate was at once transferred to his younger enemy.  The business upon which this man had come was as clear to him as though it had been written on his forehead.  The first gleam of pleasure which had visited his dark soul for twenty years was the sight of Solomon’s countenance when, on the sixth day’s sale, the auctioneer gave out that lot 970 had been withdrawn.  Solomon might have received the intimation long before but for the cautious prudence which had prevented him from making any inquiries upon the subject.  For a minute or two he stood stunned and silent, then hurriedly made his way to the rostrum.  Richard, who was sitting at the long table with the catalogue before him, kept his eyes fixed upon its pages while the auctioneer pointed him out as the purchaser of the lot in question.  He knew the inquiry that was being asked, and its reply; he knew whose burly form it was that thrust itself the next minute in between him and his neighbor; every drop of blood in