‘For my lord?’
‘No, ’tis for yourself.’
‘And where did ye get it?’
‘I met a poor woman at the foot o’ the hill, and she asked me if I knew one Misther Paybles. “Sure I do,” says I. “Then,” ses she, “will ye earn the blessin’ on a poor craythur by givin’ this into his own hand?” “I will,” ses I—and here I am.’
Peebles accepted the scrap of paper Larry held out to him, and walking to the chimneypiece, read it by the light of the lamp: ‘One who comes from Kenmare, and who knew Moya Macartney’—he started, but, remembering Larry’s presence, controlled himself and read on—‘would like to speak with him who was the best of friends to that poor colleen before she died. Will you meet the writer at ten tomorrow night in the churchyard by the lake-side and hear her message, for poor Moya’s sake?’
Peebles stood silent for a moment, the paper shaking in his fingers.
‘Who gave ye this, did ye say?’ he asked.
‘A stranger,’ said Larry. ‘She said there was no answer.’
‘Verra weel,’ said Peebles, in a tone as near commonplace as he could make it. ‘I’ll attend to it.’ Larry saluted and vanished.
Left alone, Peebles mused: