But the house which had been built in this unpromising spot was quite entitled to be called a mansion.  It was of red brick, three storeys high, with white stone facings to all the windows and all the corners, which glittered uncomfortably in the hot sun.  There was a sweep up to it, the road having been made from the debris of the stone out of which the gold had been crushed; but though there was the sweep up to the door carefully made for the length of a few dozen yards, there was nothing that could be called a road outside, though there were tracks here and there through the hillocks, along which the waggons employed about the place struggled through the mud.  The house itself was built with a large hall in the middle, and three large windows on each side.  On the floor there were four large rooms, with kitchens opening out behind, and above there were, of course, chambers in proportion and in the little garden there was a pond and a big bath-house, and there were coach-houses and stables;—­so that it was quite a mansion.  It was called Polyeuka Hall, because while it was being built Mr. Crinkett was drawing large gains from the Polyeuka mine, about three miles distant on the other side of Nobble.  For the building of his mansion on this special site, no one could imagine any other reason than that love which a brave man has of overcoming difficulties.  To endeavour to create a paradise in such a Pandemonium required all the energies of a Crinkett.  Whether or not he had been successful depended of course on his own idiosyncrasies.  He had a wife who, it is to be hoped, liked her residence.  They had no children, and he spent the greater part of his time away in other mining districts in which he had ventures.  When thus absent, he would live as Jack Brien and his friends were living at Mrs. Henniker’s, and was supposed to enjoy the ease of his inn more thoroughly than he did the constraint of his grand establishment.

At the present moment he was at home, and was standing at the gate of his domain all alone, with a pipe in his mouth,—­perhaps listening, as the man had said, to the noise of his own crushing-machine.  He was dressed in black, with a chimney-pot on his head,—­and certainly did not look like a miner, though he looked as little like a gentleman.  Our friends were in what they conceived to be proper miners’ costume, but Mr. Crinkett knew at a glance that there was something uncommon about them.  As they approached he did not attempt to open the gate, but awaited them, looking over the top of it from the inside.  ’Well, my mates, what can I do for you?’ he said, still remaining on his side, and apparently intending that they should remain on theirs.  Then Caldigate brought forth his letter, and handed it to the owner of the place across the top of the gate.  ‘I think Mr. Jones wrote to you about us before,’ said Caldigate.

Crinkett read the letter very deliberately.  Perhaps he required time to meditate what his conduct should be.  Perhaps he was not quick at reading written letters.  But at last he got to the end of the very few words which the note contained.  ‘Jones!’ he said, ’Jones wasn’t much account when he was out here.’