“Well, so he always said.  He told me at the last that he only pretended to believe in any of the foolish stories that folks talk about, and in favor of which he used to argue.  But he’s dead and gone, and that don’t make this place less uncanny.  Nobody since his time has been a-near it; they think he haunts the pit, it seems, so every body gives it a wide berth, both night and day.  We shall see, however, and pretty soon, I hope, whether that notion can not be got over.  Why, in six months’ time we ought to have a hundred men at work here.”

“Let us hope so.  But in the mean time you say nobody comes here even in the daytime, eh?”

“Never.  The place lies out of the way, you see:  about midway between the cliff-path and the road.”

“That’s well,” said Balfour, mechanically.  “And you have not been babbling to any one of our prospects, Mr. Coe—­nor of me, I hope?”

“Certainly not, Sir; that was the first article of our partnership, as I understood.  Not a soul at Gethin has heard a whisper of Wheal Danes, or of your coming; they think I’m fast asleep at my own house, this instant.  But it’s been hard work lugging this cursed ladder up here in such a breakneck night as this, I can tell you, and I am glad enough to rest a bit.”

“Well, it’s all over now, Mr. Coe.”

“Except that I have got to take it back again,” grumbled Solomon.

“True, I had forgotten that.  We must not leave it here, must we?”

“Of course not.  I do not complain of the trouble, however, only you must admit I’ve kept my tryst under some little difficulties, eh, partner?” and Solomon chuckled self-approval.

“You will be paid in full for all, my good Sir,” answered Balfour, gravely; “that is,” he added, hastily, “if the mine should turn out as you predict.  How deep is it?  That ladder of yours will surely never reach the bottom.”

“No, indeed.  Did I not tell you that there are three levels, each about the same depth?  The copper lode lies at the bottom of the last, in the northeastern corner.  You will find I have concealed nothing from you.  Well, I have got my breath again now.  Are you ready, Mr. Balfour?”

“Quite; but walk slowly, I beg, for your lantern is very dim.”

“Yes, yes.  But wait a minute; I came here yesterday and hid something.”  Solomon seated himself upon the edge of the pit, with his legs hanging over, and began to peer and feel about him.

“Take care what you are at,” cried Balfour, eagerly; “you may slip down and kill yourself, sliding along like that.”

Solomon laughed contemptuously.  “Never fear, Sir; I have had too many mischances with mines to fear them.  I have fallen down worse places, and been shut up in others far deeper and darker than Wheal Danes, without food or candle, for a week, and yet lived through it.  The shaft has not yet been dug, I reckon, as will prove—­Oh, here’s the torch.”