John Llwyd had seen a paper unfolded, but no gold; so what he had to tell did not count for much to hearers unconcerned.
But, coupled with the demeanour of Mrs. Edwards and her son, it put Mr. Pryse on the tenter-hooks of uncertainty.
The thatching was completed, but no other little secret hiding-place was found, and discovery ended there.
It was the season for the general repair of fences and dry walls, and William was kept busy.
Winter was wearing away when, through his friend Thomas Williams, another stroke of good fortune came to him.
Though I have called the latter a carpenter, the word must be taken in its broadest significance; he was also a joiner, and he aspired to be a millwright. In the days when he served his long apprenticeship, a man was expected to master his craft in all its details and branches, and to bring his mind to bear upon it, if he had one. He was older than his friend, and the very nature of his occupation had enlarged the circle under his observation.
Unknown to any but William Edwards, his attic was stored with models of millwheels and machinery in various stages, at which he wrought when his workshop was closed.
One morning, whilst February's snow yet lay upon the ground, a substantial miller named Owen Wynn, whose old mill threatened to topple over into the stream, stopped his horse at the carpenter's door, and asked abruptly 'if that was one of the buildings a young man named Edwards had put up.'
Being answered in the affirmative, he asked permission to look over the place, adding—
'Sure, I have heard he is the best mason that ever put stone together in these parts, and I would like to be seeing for myself, whatever.'