"If you know all about it, you need not let others know.

What mine are you talking about?
Give it a name--but speak it under your breath, man." The old man leaned forward with a white moist face, and peered into Richard's eyes as though he would read his soul.
"Wheal Danes was the name of the place, if I remember right," said Richard.

"Carew has a notion that the Romans did not use it up, and that it only wants capital to make it a paying concern.

It is one of his mad ideas, doubtless." Mr.John Trevethick was not by nature a quick appreciator of sarcasm, but he could not misunderstand the irony expressed in Richard's words.
"And is that what you came down to Gethin about ?" inquired he, with a sort of grim despair, which had nevertheless a comical effect.
Richard could only trust himself to nod his head assentingly.
"Well," cried the other, striking the table with his fist, "if I didn't think you was as deep as the devil the very first day that I set eyes on you! So you are Parson Whymper's man, are you ?" And here, in default of language to express his sense of the deception that, as he supposed, had been practiced on him, Mr.Trevethick uttered an execration terrible enough for a Cornish giant.
"I am not Mr.Whymper's man at all," observed Richard, coolly.

"Mr.
Whymper is my man--or at least he will be one day or another." "How so ?" inquired the landlord, his eyes at their full stretch, his mouth agape, and his neglected pipe in his right hand.