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. "What did you say, sir?" "Was there no one else, Mr. Chattaway, to serve your turn, but you must send down your wronged and unhappy nephew?" reiterated Mr. Daw, in tones that penetrated to every ear. "I have heard it said, since I came into this neighbourhood, that Mr. Chattaway would be glad, if by some lucky chance Squire Trevlyn's grandson and legal heir could be put out of his path. It seems he has succeeded in accomplishing it." Mr. Chattaway's face grew dark and frowning. "Take care what you say, sir, or you shall answer for your words. I ask you what you mean." "And I ask you--Was there no one you could despatch this morning into that dangerous mine, then on the very eve of exploding, but that helpless boy, Rupert, who might not resist your authority, and so went to his death? Was there no one, I ask?" Mr. Daw's zeal was decidedly outrunning his discretion. It is the province of exaggeration to destroy its cause, and the unfounded charge--which, temperately put, might have inflicted its sting--fell comparatively harmless on the ear of Mr. Chattaway. He could only stare and wonder--as if a proposition had been put to him in some foreign language.