Rupert felt afraid that the rough fare and humble life at Blackthorn Farm would bore or disgust his friend, but he soon found that he was wrong. Despard settled down to the new mode of life as if he had been thoroughly used to it. He was up soon after daybreak helping Marjorie to milk the cows; watching her scald the cream and make the butter, and he insisted on being taught how to do these things himself. He made himself useful about the farm, too, and quite won John Dale’s heart. He proved himself nearly as good a shot at the rabbits as Rupert, though he quite failed to catch the cunning Devonshire trout, and frankly admitted that it bored him to throw a fly. "I want to look at this old tin-mine of yours," he announced one day; and he asked Dale for particulars about it, as to how long it had been worked, why it had failed, and the state it was now in. "It has failed because there wasn’t enough tin to make it worth while working," Dale told him. "We thought we were going to make a fortune out of it, but it turned out the other way." Despard nodded and stroked his black moustache thoughtfully. "I know something about the Cornish mines, and I’ve got a bit of money in one or two of them. As you know, they restarted working a year or two ago, and they’re doing well now. There might still be money in yours, Mr. Dale." "You’re welcome to all you can find," the old man laughed. Rupert and Robert Despard spent the whole of one afternoon exploring the mine. The examination was not made without danger and difficulty. To Rupert’s surprise very little water had penetrated the main shaft, and Despard pointed out that the river and the surrounding bog-land probably acted as drainage. It was easy to find traces of tin in the tunnel right up to where the working had ceased. "It ought to have paid to follow this up," Despard said thoughtfully. "A case of too much capital or too little. Or else the engineer was a duffer." "You don’t think it would pay to erect a new plant and start operations again, do you?" Rupert said eagerly. Despard shrugged his shoulders. "The risk would be too great. If it were a gold mine, now, people would fall over one another to put money into it. Or the magic word, radium!" Despard stopped suddenly, and raising the light he carried glanced into Rupert’s face. He had been scraping and poking about in the bed of the tunnel while he talked, using a short, pick-like instrument he had commandeered from the farm. He held out a small piece of black substance having something of the colour and consistency of tar. He told Rupert to examine it closely. The latter did so. "Well?" Despard cried sharply. There was a trace of nervous excitement in his voice which Rupert had never heard before. "Well?" the latter said. "Good Lord! no wonder you’ve been plucked three times!" Despard cried. "Don’t you know what this stuff is?" Rupert examined it again. "Rather like pitch-blende." "Yes—something," Despard sneered.