Conseltine thrust Blake into his chair, and turned.
‘What d’ye mean?’ he asked.
‘Moya Macartney’s alive!’ cried the lawyer.
Conseltine staggered as if he had been shot, and Blake, who had risen to his feet to make a rush at Feagus, checked himself, and stood still, swaying heavily on his feet, as he glared at the bearer of this extraordinary news.
‘Are ye mad or drunk?’ asked Conseltine, with an ashen face.
‘I’m neither, sir,’ answered Feagus. ‘God be good to me, I’m too sober for my pace of mind! I tell ye Moya Macartney’s alive. I’ve seen her.’
Conseltine stared at him like a man newly awakened from a nightmare, as he went on: ‘’Twas last night, in the churchyard down by the lake. I was passin’ by, and I saw a woman standing there among the graves, and old Peebles coming along the road. Thinks I, “I’ll have a fine story to tell my lord next time I dine with him,” and I just slipped behind a gravestone and listened. He didn’t know her till she told him who she was—Moya Macartney, who’s been drowned and in her grave this eighteen years! Holy Moses! I’m wringing wet only to think of it!’
‘Get on, man, get on!’ said Conseltine hoarsely.
‘I kept as still as death,’ continued Feagus, ‘though ’twas all I could do to hold meself from cryin’ out when I heard her say “I’m Moya Macartney.” Then she went on to say that she’d come back to the old place to see the boy, and at that very minute he kem along the road singin’.’
‘Desmond?’ cried Conseltine.