The shades of evening were beginning to envelop the landscape as Peebles made his slow and toilsome way towards Blake’s Hall. The old man had been in a ferment of excitement all day long, and nothing but his long years of habit as chief officer and general director of Lord Kilpatrick’s household had sufficed to hold him back from fulfilling his momently recurring desire to throw his duties to the winds for that day, and at once proceed to put to Blake the question dictated to him by Moya Macartney. His discomposure had not escaped the notice of his master, who, since the shock occasioned by Desmond’s renunciation of him and his abrupt departure from the house, had kept his room, and had resented all approaches, even that of his favourite Dulcie, with an exaggeration of his usual snappish ill-temper.

‘What the deuce are you dreaming about, Peebles?’ he had asked, as the old servitor made some slight blunder in the service at his master’s solitary dinner-table.

‘If ye had an inkling of what I am dreaming about,’ Peebles had responded, with his customary drawl, ‘ye’d be in nae such a hurry to speer, maybe.’

At which his lordship had muttered an angry ‘Pshaw!’ and turned his face away.

‘Is there any news of—of Desmond?’ he asked a minute later.

‘No, my lord,’ answered Peebles; ‘none that I ken o’.’

He was in so mortal a dread of prematurely letting slip the secret of Moya’s presence in the neighbourhood that he would not trust himself to approach the subject at all.

‘Where is he?’ asked Kilpatrick.

‘They say he’s at Doolan’s farm,’ answered Peebles.

‘They say!’ snapped his lordship. ‘As if you didn’t know where the boy is, you disingenuous old brute!’

‘Oh ay!’ said Peebles tranquilly. ‘Swear at me, wi’ a’ my heart, if it will ease your lordship’s heart, or your conscience.’

Kilpatrick pushed his plate aside.

‘Take these things away and bring the wine.’

Peebles obeyed, and filled his master’s glass, after which he lingered for a moment.

‘Well, Peebles, well? Have you anything to say?’

‘Just that I’m going oot for an hour or twa. I hae a visit to make. If ye want anything in my absence the flunkey will look after ye.’

‘Very good,’ answered Kilpatrick, who thought he knew the object of Peebles’ visit. ‘Peebles!’ he called, as the old man reached the door.

‘My lord!’

‘Has—has the boy any resources—any funds?’

‘Not that I ken o’,’ answered Peebles. ‘He was aye too open-handed.’

‘Well, if he wants money—he wouldn’t take it from me, I suppose—lend him what he asks, and look to me for repayment. There, there, that will do.’

Peebles saluted and retired, and set out half an hour later for Blake’s Hall. Entering the rude sitting-room, he made out, through the gathering shadows, the figure of Blake leaning on the table.

‘In his general condition, the drunken wastrel!’ said Peebles. ’Tis odd but he’s sae drunk he’ll not understand me when I speak to him. Mr. Blake! Mr. Blake!’ He shook the recumbent figure gently at first, and then more roughly, and at last elicited a husky growl. ‘Mr. Blake! Wake up, and speak to me. Man, I’ve news for ye, and a question to ask o’ ye. Wake up, wake up, for the love o’ Heaven!’

Blake swayed back in his seat and opened his eyes. His first act, half unconscious, was to hold out his hand towards the bottle, which Peebles snatched from him with the quickness of a conjurer.

‘Ye’ve had enough o’ that for one while, ye disgraceful object,’ he said. ‘Wake up, I tell ye! Wake up, and tell me what I want to know.’

‘Oh, ’tis you, Misther Peebles!’ cried Blake.

‘Ay, ’tis mysel’,’ returned Peebles. ‘I’ve news for ye, when ye’re sufficiently sober to hear it.’

Blake, like the practised toper he was, pulled himself together, and succeeded in looking solemnly and preternaturally sober.

‘We’re alone?’ asked the old Scot, glancing cautiously round.

‘We are,’ said Blake. ‘Biddy’s gone to the village for more whisky.’

‘Then listen,’ said Peebles. ‘Moya Macartney’s alive!’ He made the communication slowly and distinctly, and paused to mark its effect.

‘Bedad! that’s true!’ returned Blake, as calmly as if Peebles had said ‘Good-day.’ ‘Ye ken it!’ cried the old man. ‘And how the deil d’ye ken it?’

‘That’s my business, sir,’ said Blake. ‘I do know it. She was in the churchyard last night wid a Scotch gentleman of your acquaintance!’

It was difficult to throw Peebles off his mental balance for long at a time, and, surprised as he was at Blake’s knowledge of the interview of the preceding night, he went on with a perfect apparent calm:

‘Weel, it should lighten your heart! Ay! ye should fall on your knees and thank God, who’s kinder to ye than ye deserve, that ye have not that puir lassie’s death on your conscience!’

‘Have ye come here to preach?’ asked Blake.

‘Na, na!’ said Peebles. ‘That’s not my business, but it’s yours, Mr. Ryan O’Connor, if a’ tales are true!’

There could be no mistaking the effect of this speech on Blake. He half rose from his seat, clutching the sides of the table with trembling hands, and stared at Peebles with his eyes standing out of his head with surprise.

‘And how the thunder did you know that?’ he asked.

‘That’s my business,’ retorted the old Scotchman dryly.

‘Holy powers!’ muttered Blake, falling back into his chair, and passing his hand across his eyes in a bewildered fashion. ‘’Tis dreamin’ I am!’

‘Listen to me, Patrick Blake,’ said Peebles solemnly. ‘I met Moya Macartney last night. Poor lass! Her spirit’s sadly broken. Says she to me—“Peebles, it’s eighteen years since I spread the report of my own death; my hair is white, and my heart is broken; gang to Mr. Blake and ask him, as he values his own soul, to tell ye if ever he was in holy orders.”’

Blake breathed hard, staring at Peebles with a face gone white.

‘Answer!’ cried the old man, ‘and for God’s sake answer truly!’

‘Well, then,’ said Blake, ‘I was; but not when I married Moya Macartney to Lord Kilpatrick.’

‘Had they unfrocked ye?’ asked Peebles. ‘Tell me that!’

‘I’d unfrocked myself,’ answered Blake. ‘The Bishop said I was a disgrace and scandal to the Church, and took from me the only cure of souls I ever had.’

‘But at the time ye married Moya were ye drummed out o’ the Kirk?’

‘Devil the drum about it,’ responded Blake. ‘The Bishop persuaded me to quit, so I just civilly retired. ’Twas convanient at the time, for sure I had creditors enough to man a Queen’s ship.’

‘But ye had been a priest, and properly ordained?’ asked Peebles.

‘Faith, I was as well ordained as any priest need be. What the divil’s the matter wid ye?’ he asked, as Peebles sprang from the seat he had taken and broke into a Highland fling. ‘Is it mad ye are?’

‘Clean daft wi’ joy!’ cried the old man. ‘Gie’s your hand, man!’ He seized Blake’s hand and wrung it heartily. ‘By the piper that played before Moses, ye’re the Reverend Mr. Blake still!—and by that same token Moya Macartney is Lady Kilpatrick, and Desmond Macartney is Desmond Consel-tine, his lordship’s son and heir!’

The mention of the name of Conseltine electrified Blake. He clutched his whisky-muddled head in both hands, staring wildly before him.

‘My God!’ he cried suddenly, ‘is it dreamin’ that I am? No, by the Lord, ’tis no dream, sir! Get up, man, get up! ’Tis no time to be sittin’ here! They mean mischief—already it may be too late!’

‘Too late! Too late for what?’ cried the old man.

‘Richard Conseltine and his boy, and Feagus the attorney—bad cess to the lot of ’em—were here this forenoon. They know Moya’s alive! They know where she lives! Oh, my head, my head! what was it the blackguards said? Ah!’ he screamed, ‘the mill! ’tis at Larry’s mill that Moya’s living!’

‘Yes!’ cried Peebles. ‘She’s there. But what of that? Speak, man! what is it?’

‘They mean to burn the mill, and her with it!’ cried Blake. ‘For the love o’ God, run and find Desmond, and get Moya out o’ the place. ’Twas here that they plotted it. Man alive, I believe they mean murder!’

‘Murder!’ gasped Peebles.

‘Isn’t it life or death to them to keep Moya out o’ the way? Run, man! Run every step o’ the road! Ye’ve time to save her yet. They daren’t try it before nightfall. Doolan’s farm is on the way, and ye’ll find Desmond there. If ever ye loved him, run!’

Peebles, knowing the men with whom he had to deal, needed no further warning, but after a few more hasty words with Blake, ran rather than walked from Blake’s Hall.