They shook their heads. "Not now. He have been down too long. There's not a chance for him."
Something like emotion passed over Mr. Daw's features.
"How came he to be down the pit?" he asked. "Was it his business to go down?"
"Not in ord'nary. No: 'tworn't once in six months as there was aught to take him there."
"Then what took him there to-day?" was Mr. Daw's next question.
"The master sent him," replied the man, pointing towards Chattaway.
Apparently Mr. Daw had not observed Chattaway before, and he turned and walked towards him. Vexation at the loss of Rupert—it may surely be called vexation rather than grief, since he had not known Rupert sufficiently long to love him—a loss so sudden and terrible, was rendering Mr. Daw unjust. Chattaway's worst enemy could not fairly blame him with reference to the fate of Rupert: but Mr. Daw was in a hasty mood.
"Is it true that you sent Rupert Trevlyn down the shaft only a few minutes before this calamity occurred?"
The address and the speaker equally took Mr. Chattaway by surprise. His attention was riveted on something then being raised from the shaft, and he had not noticed the stranger. Hastily turning his head, he saw, first the conspicuous red umbrella, next its obnoxious and dangerous owner.
Ah, but no longer dangerous now. That terrible fear was over for ever. With the first glimpse, Mr. Chattaway's face had turned to a white heat, from the force of habit; but the next moment's reflection reassured him, and he retained his equanimity.