“Wheal Carnac’s for sale.”
“Well, so it has been for a long time.”
“Yes, but they mean to sell now, I hear; and they say it would be worth any one’s while to buy it.”
“Yes, so I suppose,” said Mr Penwynn, smiling; “but we do not invest in mines, Chynoweth. We shall be happy to keep the account of the company, though, who start. How many have failed there?”
“Three,” said Chynoweth. “There has been a deal of money thrown down that place.”
Mr Penwynn nodded and entered his private room, when Chynoweth gave one ear a rub, stood his slate upon the desk, raised the flap and let it rest on his head, and then proceeded to finish his hand at whist, evidently with satisfactory results, for he smiled and rubbed his hands, placed the cards in a corner, and next proceeded to write two or three letters, one of which, concluded in affectionate terms, he afterwards tore up.
Some hours passed, when a clerk brought in a card.
“For Mr Penwynn, sir.”
“Geoffrey Trethick,” said Mr Chynoweth, reading. “Take it in.”
The clerk obeyed, and a few minutes later he ushered the new visitor to Carnac into Mr Penwynn’s private room, where the banker and the stranger looked hard at each other for a few moments before the former pointed to a chair, his visitor being quite a different man from what he had pictured.