The person inside made no answer save by an extra clatter of some
domestic utensils, and Madame apparently did not expect a reply, for
without saying anything else she walked slowly down the garden path,
and leaned lightly over the gate, waiting for the newcomer, who was
indeed none other than Archibald McIntosh, the manager of the
Pactolus.

He was a man of about medium height, rather thin than otherwise,
with a long, narrow-looking head and boldly cut features--clean
shaved save for a frill of white hair which grew on his throat up
the sides of his head to his ears, and which gave him rather a
peculiar appearance, as if he had his jaw bandaged up. His eyes were
grey and shrewd-looking, his lips were firmly compressed--in fact,
the whole appearance of his face was obstinate--the face of a man
who would stick to his opinions whatever anyone else might say to
the contrary. He was in a rough miner's dress, all splashed with
clay, and as he came up to the gate Madame could see he was holding
something in his hand.

'D'ye no ken what yon may be?' he said, a smile relaxing his grim
features as he held up a rather large nugget; ''tis the third yin
this week!'

Madame Midas took the nugget from him and balanced it carefully in
her hand, with a thoughtful look in her face, as if she was making a
mental calculation.

'About twenty to twenty-five ounces, I should say,' she observed in
her soft low voice; 'the last we had was fifteen, and the one before
twenty--looks promising for the gutter, doesn't it?'