In a state of mind bordering as closely on frenzy as was possible in so very cold and calculating a nature, Conseltine made his way to the neighbouring village of Cor-dale, where, in a disreputable inn bearing the pretentious title ‘Hotel,’ his confederate Feagus was waiting the issue of events. He found the worthy seated in a parlour leading off the main chamber, or taproom, playing cards with the landlord, a truculent-looking ruffian in shirt-sleeves.
As Conseltine entered, Feagus looked up with a grin, but, seeing at a glance by the expression of Conseltine’s face that something unusual had occurred, he threw down his cards and rose to his feet.
‘Business before pleasure, Pat Linney,’ he said. ‘Here’s a client, good luck to him! Will ye be seated, Mr. Conseltine?’
‘No, no,’ was the reply. ‘Come out into the fresh air; this place is stifling’—as indeed it was, from the combined effects of bad ventilation, bad tobacco, and bad whiskey.
‘What’s the matter now?’ sharply demanded the lawyer, as they stood together in the open street. An Irish ‘mist’ was falling from skies dark with heavy clouds, and the prospect all around the few miserable huts which constituted the ‘village’ was miserable in the extreme.
In a few hurried words Conseltine recounted the facts of the interview’ with Peebles.
‘So that’s it, is it?’ cried the lawyer, scowling savagely. ‘If I’d been in your place, I’d have coaxed the ould villain into some convanient corner, and knocked him on the head.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Conseltine.
‘Nonsense, ye call it?’ snapped Feagus, showing his teeth like a savage dog about to bite. ‘When you’re cooling your heels in gaol ye’ll pipe to a different tune.’
‘And you?’