They can prove nothing, let them talk as they may. Feagus will hold his tongue for his own sake, for if the case comes before the court there are three to swear that he suggested the business. There’s no danger at all, except from your cursed cowardice. Pull yourself together, and trust to me. They can prove no motive. Why should you and I go burning mills and killing old peasant women? Feagus is the only creature alive who knows that we were aware of Moya’s identity. Keep a cool head, and you’ll be Lord Kilpatrick before long.’
The task which Peebles had undertaken was no easy one, and the more he contemplated it, the more difficult it seemed to grow. He racked his brains over the problem of how to make known to one in so precarious a condition of health as Lord Kilpatrick the secret of Moya’s continued existence, and of her presence in the neighbourhood. The difficulty was complicated by the cowardly and criminal attempt on her life by two members of his lordship’s family, for the honour of which the faithful old servant was deeply concerned. That two such scoundrels should still be permitted to prey on the kindness of his master, and diminish Desmond’s patrimony, was intolerable; that they should be publicly charged with their crime was impossible. Feagus, too, was in the same boat, and must also be permitted to escape, for it was impossible to denounce him without bringing the crime of the Conseltines to light. But, then, there was the chance—the strong chance—of the gossip of the countryside bringing to their ears the knowledge of Moya’s continued existence, and what three such scoundrels might do to cover their unsuccessful attempt, and to secure their endangered booty, it was hard to say.
The need for decisive action was pressing, but in what direction was that action to be taken? One course, and one course only, seemed to Peebles clear for the moment. It was in his power to secure Moya’s safety from any further attempt. That could be done by simply telling the two villains now in the house that their nefarious proceeding of the night before was known. Once resolved, Peebles was as bold a man as any that ever trod shoe-leather; and with such a weapon as was furnished by his hold over the two Conseltines he would have faced an army. His resolution taken, he walked with an assured foot upstairs to Richard’s bedroom, and knocked at the door; it was opened by the elder man.
‘I’d like a word with you, if you please, Mr. Conseltine,’ he said.
‘Presently, Mr. Peebles, presently,’ said the other, who did not care to expose his son and confederate to the old man’s keen eye in his present pitiful condition of nervous excitement. ‘We have business of importance together.’
‘It must be business o’ very great importance,’ said Peebles, ‘if it can’t wait till mine is finished.’
Conseltine’s hard eye dwelt on the old man’s face, and his lips twitched in a hopeless attempt to maintain their impassivity.
‘You are importunate, my old friend,’ he said.
‘Ye’d better listen to me,’ returned the grim old servitor.
Conseltine stood aside to allow him to enter, and closed and locked the door behind him. Richard was seated on the bed. He made a terrible and clumsy effort to seem at ease as Peebles’ gaze passed lightly over him before it settled again on his father.