‘Well?’ said Dick eagerly.
‘Then,’ continued Conseltine, ‘one night—a devilish cold winter’s night it was, too—the boy was brought to my brother with a letter. “Take your child,” the letter said, “and as you use him may God use you! You’ll never hear from me again.” ’Twas signed “Moya Macartney,” and a week later her body was found on the sands of Kenmare Bay.’
‘A good riddance,’ said Feagus. ‘And now, Dick, guess the name of the child!’
Dick looked questioningly at his father, who said quietly:
‘The child is the Squireen, Desmond Macartney.’
Feagus gazed sideways from under his ponderous brows at young Conseltine. The boy’s sullen mask was almost as inscrutable as his father’s smooth face.
‘Does Desmond Macartney guess that he’s my lord’s son?’ asked the youth.
‘No,’ said Conseltine. ‘A story was trumped up that he was the orphan son of people to whom my brother owed obligations. He’s too big a fool to trouble himself asking questions.’
‘Well, then,’ said Feagus, ‘spake out and let me know what ’tis ye fear.’
‘I fear my brother’s weakness. He may leave all to this young vagabond. He’s been conscience-haunted about Moya Macartney’s death ever since it happened, and I know that more than once he has made his will in favour of the Squireen. There’s not a square yard of the estate entailed. He could leave it to a beggar in the street if he liked, and Dick would get nothing but the title. I’m as certain as I can be that he has sent for you to make a will; and with that old rascal Peebles always whispering in his ears, praising the bastard, and running down Dick, there’s danger.’