Geoffrey went to an hotel, had a few hours’ rest and refreshment, and once more he was being hurried to the little mining town, where he arrived this time without adventure, bitter with disappointment, and seeing endless advantages in the possession of the mine now that it was gone from him forever. So enraged was he at the result of his journey that he could not bear to look at the mine as he walked towards Gwennas, but rigorously turned his eyes aside.
He had walked as far as the ruined pit when he started, for he heard his name pronounced, and, turning, there stood old Prawle, waiting to intercept him on his return.
“Now then,” he said, excitedly. “How much did you have to give, my lad? Quick! How much?”
“I have not bought the mine,” said Geoffrey.
“What?” cried the old man, furiously; and his weather-beaten countenance turned of a curious hue. “I told you to buy her, no matter what price.”
“There was an accident to the train. The mine was sold before I got there.”
“Sold!” cried the old man, with an oath. “Why didn’t you walk on?”
“Two hundred miles in eight hours,” said Geoffrey, grimly.
“Why didn’t you write or—or send?”
“I tried all; I thought of all; I spared no pains, Father Prawle,” said Geoffrey, commiserating, the old man’s disappointment. “You could not have saved it had you gone yourself.”