"Let them talk," he muttered, "if it pleases them;" and, after a late dinner, and spending an hour or two in writing, he made up his mind to go to bed and have a good night's rest, to make up for the losses of the previous night. He felt that he would like to know how old Mr Paul was, but he could not send or ask with any degree of comfort, so he went to bed at ten. But it was not to rest. His nerves had been so unduly excited by the events of the past twenty-four hours that, try how he would, he could not get to sleep. As a rule, strong, healthy, and hearty, no sooner was his head upon his pillow than he dropped off into a deep slumber. But this night his mind was in a continuous whirl. He tossed, he turned, got up and bathed his beating temples and burning forehead, scrubbed himself with a towel, and lay down again, but there was no sleep. Now he was following poor Madge along the cliff, and plunging into the sea to save her. Then he was facing Bessie Prawle, whose eyes looked reproachfully at him. Again, he would be back at the cottage going through that pitiful scene with poor old Mr Paul; and when at last he succeeded in dismissing that from his mind, he was haunted by the face of Rhoda gazing at him with such a look of scorn and contempt that he was obliged to sit up in bed to make sure it was not real. "Upsets a man's nerves, no matter how strong he may be," argued Geoffrey; and he once more threw himself down, wishing that he was back at the cottage, for, as it was comparatively early, there were noises in the hotel that helped to keep him awake. At last, about midnight, he seemed to have successfully laid the whole of the unrestful spirits that had been haunting him, and, feeling calmer, he uttered a sigh of satisfaction, and felt that he was going now to enjoy his well-earned rest, when a fresh thought leaped to his brain, and that was about Wheal Carnac. He had been down the mine that evening, and every thing was progressing admirably. The machinery was in perfect order, the men settling down more and more to their work, and they were in a high state of delight at the success that had attended Pengelly's investigations. Why then should he trouble himself about Wheal Carnac? He argued with himself that it was imagination, due to the excited state of his nerves and the worries of the day. He felt that it was that; but, in spite of his reasoning, he could not rest. Sleep seemed to be out of the question, and yet he would be terribly unfit for the next day's work. At last he could bear it no longer, and, feeling that rest would not come unless he could satisfy himself that the place was safe, he got up and dressed. "I'm growing a wise man," he said, mockingly. "I wonder whether any one has run away with the mine? Perhaps there is a burglary on, and they are breaking into the boiler."