Blake laughed with drunken good humour.
’Tis a brave boy, old Peebles! He doesn’t trust me, but, after all, ’tis a question of taste, and no gentleman quarrels on such a ground. Bedad, I’m dry.’ He searched his pockets, and found them empty. ‘Here, you spalpeen,’ he continued, accosting Richard, ‘pay for a drink for me. Sure, ’twill be a luxury for you, and one you don’t often enjoy.’
‘Bring some whisky, if you please, Mrs. Daly,’ said Conseltine smoothly, before Richard could muster his heavy wits to retort. ‘Sit down, Blake, and listen to me. Are ye sober enough to talk business?’
‘I’m as sober as I need be,’ responded Blake; ‘and more sober than I want to be, at this hour o’ the night.’
‘That’s easily cured,’ said Conseltine dryly, handing him a charged tumbler; ‘but don’t go too fast—this is business.’
‘Discoorse,’ said Blake, tossing off the spirit, ‘and I’ll listen.’
The widow still lingered about the room, making pretence of trifling with some household task. Conseltine with a smooth voice bade her leave them to themselves, and she obeyed, after which he rose, and for greater security closed the door leading to the road.
‘Ye’re mighty mysterious,’ said Blake. ‘What is it, at all?’
‘Have you heard what happened at the Castle this morning?’ asked Conseltine, leaning across the rude table at which the two were seated, and speaking in a whisper.
‘How the divil should I?’ asked Blake.