“I understand; it is quite right,” said Richard, gravely.  “Moreover, since the opportunity may not occur again, let me now state how it all happened.”

“Nay, you must not talk.  We know it all, or at least enough of it for the present.”

“What do you know?” asked Richard, with his eyes half shut, but with eager ears.

“That in your benevolent attempt to seek after Mr. Coe you met with the same accident—­though I trust it will not have the same ending—­as that unfortunate gentleman himself.  He pitched upon his head and broke his neck, while you fell upon your side.”

“That is so,” murmured Richard.  “He and I were partners, you see—­”

“There, there; not a word more,” insisted the doctor; “your deposition can wait.”

And having done what he could for his patient, he left him, in order to examine the unfortunate Solomon.  His investigation corroborated all that he had already heard of the circumstances of his death, with which also Richard’s evidence accorded.  An observation made by one of the miners who had found the body, to the effect that it was yet warm when they had come upon it, excited the surgeon’s ridicule.

“It is now Tuesday morning, my friend,” said he, “and this poor fellow met with his death on Saturday night for certain.  He could not, therefore, have been much warmer when you found him than he is now.”

“Well, me and my mate here we both fancied—­”

“I dare say you did, my man,” interrupted the doctor; “and fancy is a very proper word to apply to such an impression.  If you take my advice, however, you will not repeat such a piece of evidence when put upon your oath, for the thing is simply impossible.”

“Then I suppose we be in the wrong,” said Dick to Jack; and on that supposition they acted.

In this way too self-reliant Science, whose mission it is to explode fallacies, occasionally assists in the explosion or suffocation of a fact, for Solomon Coe had not been dead half an hour when his body was found.

When Richard, alone on his errand of mercy, was approaching the brink of the third level, he could hear Solomon calling lustily for help.  Nay, it was not only “Help!” but “Murder!” that he cried out; and notwithstanding the menace that that word implied toward himself, Richard hurried on, well pleased to hear it; the vigor of the cry assured him that his enemy was not only living, but unhurt.  As the light he carried grew more distinct to him, indeed, these shouts redoubled; but when it came quite near, and disclosed the features of its bearer, there was a dead silence.  The two men stood confronting one another—­the one in light, distinctly seen, looking down upon the other in shade, just as they had parted only eight-and-forty hours ago.  To one of them, as we know, this space had been eventful; but to the other it had seemed a lifetime—­an age of hopes and fears, and latterly of cold despair, which had now been warmed once more to hope only to freeze again.  For was not this man, to whom he had looked for aid, his cruel foe come back to taunt him—­to behold him already half-way toward death, and to make its slow approach more bitter?  But great as was his agony Solomon held his peace, nor offered to this monarch of his fate the tribute of a groan.