After six months of ceaseless work and research; of hope and despair, a rich strain of pitch-blende was discovered with radium emanations. The shares of the newly named "Blackthorn" Mine were daily quoted on the Stock Exchange. At first their behaviour was erratic, jumping from pence to shillings, shillings to pounds, and back again in a way that suggested that the market was once again being rigged. But it was not. Patterson, working quietly and secretly with Mr. Swartz, discovered a new method of extracting radium-ore, which reduced the cost of production of the element by fifty per cent. And shortly after Captain and Mrs. James Crichton returned from a very prolonged honeymoon, the Blackthorn Mine had produced enough radium to assure them they need have no fear as to their future—unless it were the fear that such great and unexpected wealth might rob them of the simple love and happiness they had found. John Dale was overwhelmed. When, metaphorically, the rats had left the sinking ship, he had found himself with several thousand worthless shares. These shares were soon quoted at a hundred per cent. premium. "I don’t like it," he said in his old-fashioned way, wagging his head. "It don’t seem right somehow. All I want now is a few pounds a week and the old farm, my son by my side, and my girl happily married." "Well, you’ve got all that," Patterson laughed. "And whenever you feel worried by your wealth, you’ve only got to step outside your front door, walk over the East Dart, buy five thousand pounds worth of your own radium, and send it to one of the great hospitals in London. They’ll know what to do with it there. Blackthorn Farm means life for thousands of poor creatures who have abandoned hope. We can give ’em life, John Dale, so don’t worry about being rich. Money’s an awful nuisance I know, but one always has the consolation that one can get rid of it as quickly as one likes—which is more than a poor man can do, anyway!" Dale admitted that he had never thought of it in that way. But he has taken Patterson’s advice, and he finds that it answers very well. And he is still to be found at Blackthorn Farm, Dartmoor, living principally on old ale and brown bread and cheese, and—so the gossips affirm at the village inn—dividing his time between reclaiming the waste land and turning it into pasture, and signing cheques for the benefit of certain schemes and institutions, which he keeps a secret from everyone but his son Rupert. Robert Despard is also living on Dartmoor—but not at Blackthorn Farm. His country keeps him—for his country’s good. And he wears a very pretty uniform and attends church-parade regularly.