Peebles had left the Conseltines barely half an hour when a message was brought to him in his pantry that Mr. Blake of Blake’s Hall would be glad to have the pleasure of a word with him. Blake, being ushered into the old man’s private room, immediately demanded whisky, and, having been supplied, inquired of Peebles what was the news concerning Moya.
‘I met Larry as I was coming here. Sure, he’s like a madman, raving about the poor woman that must have been burned wid the mill, though sorra a chip of her bones or a rag of her dress have they found.’
‘They’re no likely to find anything,’ said Peebles. ‘I went straight to Desmond last night, and he was just in time to rescue her from the awfu’ death the villains had plotted for her.’
‘Glad am I to know it,’ said Blake. ‘Are the rogues laid by the heels yet?’
‘No,’ said Peebles, ‘nor will they be, wi’ my good will. Man, ’twould break my lord’s heart! His ain brother, Mr. Blake! his ain brother’s son! No, no. They must be let gang, for the honour o’ the family, though it’s a hard lump to swallow, and goes terribly against my conscience, that twa such wretches should be free while many a decent man’s in prison. But there’s just no help for it. And noo, just tell me, Mr. Blake, are ye sober—sober enough, I mean, to know the value of what ye’re saying?’
‘Sober, is it?’ cried Blake. ‘Soberer than I’ve been this five-and-twenty years, bad luck to me!’
‘Then listen to me,’ said Peebles. ‘’Twas you that married his lordship to Moya Macartney?’
‘’Twas so,’ returned Blake.
‘And ye had really been ordained a clerk in holy orders before that time?’
‘I had, but when I performed the ceremony I used a false name.’