There's a man in Breakneckshire called Carew of
Crompton--"

"I know him: the gentleman born as put on the gloves with Bendigo at
Birmingham?"

"Very likely; at all events, every body knows him in the Midlands. He
will go to the dogs some day, and his estate will be sold. You have
saved money, you tell me; if the chance occurs, you can't invest it
better than in the lot called Wheal Danes, a mine in Cornwall."

"I believe you every word," said Balfour; "but a mine would be rather
over my figure, wouldn't it? I have only got eight hundred pounds."

"That would be plenty. It's a disused mine, and supposed to be worked
out. There's only one man in England that knows it is not so, except
myself. He will come or send to the auction, expecting to get it cheap;
but do you bid two hundred pounds beforehand, and get it by private
contract. Say you want the place--it's close to the sea--for building
purposes; they'll laugh at you, and jump at your offer. The fee-simple
is not supposed to be worth five shillings an acre. It will turn out a
gold mine to whoever gets it."

"Wheal Danes," repeated Balfour, carefully. "I'll remember that; and
what is more, lad, I'll not forget the man as told me of it. It's not
the profit that I am speaking on: that will be yours, I hope, as it
should be in all reason, and not mine; but it's the confidence." The old
man's voice grew husky with emotion. "Damme, I liked _you_ from the
first, as was natural enough; but there was no reason why you should
take a fancy to an old thief like me more than any other among this
pretty lot here. The first as speaks of secrets is of course the one as
runs the risk, but I will do what I can to show myself honorable on my
side. You have trusted me, and I'll trust you."

"Have you any plan to get away from this?" whispered Richard, eagerly.
"All that I have shall be yours: I swear it."

"Nay, lad; your word's enough," returned the other, reproachfully. "And
I don't covet nothing of yours; indeed I don't."

"I was a brute to talk so to you, Balfour," answered Richard,
penitently. "But you don't mow how I crave for freedom: it makes me mad
to think of it."

"Ay, ay; I know," sighed the old fellow. "It used to be so with me once;
but now it only comes on me when my term is nearly up. One gets patient
as one gets old, you'll find. No; I've no plan just now; though, if I
ever have, I promise you you shall be the man to know it. It's another
matter altogether t