‘He knows!’ gasped Richard; ‘I could see it in his eye; he knows.’
‘Knows!’ echoed Conseltine scornfully.
‘What does he know?’
‘He knows that the woman at the mill was Moya Macartney.’
‘And if he does,’ said Conseltine, ‘what then? What can he prove?’
‘He knows more than that, I’ll swear!’ cried Richard. ‘I saw him look at me. He knows enough to hang us.’
‘Hang us!’ repeated the elder. ‘By the saints, I’ve a mind to save the hangman half his work, you white-livered, croaking coward!’
‘If he doesn’t know, Blake does,’ said Richard.
‘Leave Blake to me,’ said his father.
‘I’ll look after Blake. ’Twill be a question of money; he’ll bleed us pretty freely, I expect; but if he opens his mouth too wide I’ll bluff him, and swear he dreamt it. ’Tis two against one, any way; two men of good position and unblemished record against one drunken vagabond.