‘Well, sir?’ said Conseltine as calmly as he could.
‘Before making the communication I hae to make,’ said Peebles, his usual slow and deliberate drawl more slow and deliberate than ever, ‘I hae to tell ye that, but for the honour o’ the house I’ve served man and boy for five-and-forty years, I should have conseedered it my duty as a good citizen to hand you and your son, Mr. Richard Conseltine, here present, into the hands o’ justice.’
Neither of the persons he addressed making any reply to this preamble, Peebles continued:
‘When Larry’s mill was burned down last night, the woman once known as Moya Macartney, best known to you and me, Mr. Conseltine, as Lady Kilpatrick, was leeving there.’
That Conseltine knew of Moya’s claim to the title Peebles gave her was only a shrewd guess of the latter’s, but the start and pallor with which Conseltine heard the words showed the old man that the shaft had struck home.
‘The mill,’ continued Peebles, ‘was fired by you and your son there, in complicity wi’ one Feagus, the lawyer, wi’ the object of destroying the unfortunate lady, your brother’s wife.’
Richard gave a sort of feeble gulp at this, and cowered terror-stricken on the bed.
‘It’s by no virtue o’ yours, Mr. Conseltine, that your wicked will was not worked. Moya Macartney, Lady Kilpatrick, is alive and safe. She was rescued from death by her son, Desmond Conseltine, sole lawfully begotten son and heir of my master, Lord Kilpatrick.’
‘Damn you!’ cried Richard, leaping from the bed at these words with a flash of hysteric anger conquering his fears.
‘You come and tell us this! Father——!’