“That’s she. Did she ill-wish you?”
“Not that I know of. Does she do that sort of thing?” said Geoffrey, smiling.
“Oh, yes!” sneered the old gentleman. “They say she’s a witch, and her father’s as scoundrelly an old wrecker and smuggler as ever breathed. He’s one of your kidney, too. Been a miner.”
“A nice character to give a neighbour,” said Geoffrey.
“Confound him! He’s no neighbour of mine, sir. You’d better get your new friend to go down Horton mine with you.”
“What—Tregenna?”
“No, no; Smuggler Prawle. He knows more about the mines than any one here.”
“Does he?” said Geoffrey, eagerly. “Well, perhaps I may ask him some day.”
They were standing just in front of the cottage, and as he spoke Geoffrey glanced upward, to see that Madge Mullion was at the upper window, standing back, but evidently gazing intently down upon him, ready to dart back, though, the moment he raised his eyes; and he went away thinking of his little adventure at Wheal Carnac the previous day, and of how strangely he had become possessed of a secret that might, if it were known, raise him up one, two, if not three, bitter enemies during his stay.
It was a great nuisance, he thought, this bit of knowledge, for his conscience pricked him, and he asked himself whether he ought not to make some communication to Uncle Paul or Mrs Mullion.