“No. For some reason best known to themselves, the C. C. & I. people do not wish me to drill that test-hole in the old burying-ground. Do you know the reason, Professor Hartridge?”
It was too nearly dark for Tregarvon to see the quizzical smile which this query evoked, but he knew it was there.
“You are asking me as man to man, Mr. Tregarvon?”
“I am—just that. I have been condemning you unjustly, and you now have a most excellent chance to heap coals of fire upon my head.”
“You are making it impossible for me to hold malice,” was the genial response. “I wish I could answer your question definitely; but I cannot. I do not know why Thaxter should wish to prevent you from drilling that particular test-hole.”
“You mean that I am not going to find the paying vein of coal under the old burying-ground?”
“I am practically certain that you are not.”
“Would you mind giving me your reasons?”
“They are geological—and conclusive. The strata under the glade are precisely the same as those occurring at your tramhead. Moreover, if you will take the trouble to examine the ground at the foot of the cliff below your present location you will find the coal outcrop: a single vein, not over twenty inches thick. A little lower down you will find another, still thinner.”
Tregarvon laughed mirthlessly. “I asked you for bread, and you have given me a stone,” he protested. “Am I to assume that Consolidated Coal is better informed than you are, professor?”