He laughed again, and drank another glass of whisky.
Conseltine took no notice of the interruption, which he seemed scarcely to hear.
‘What are ye goin’ to do, sir?’ asked Feagus.
‘I don’t know yet,’ answered Conseltine slowly. He sat down, and leant his head upon his hand, Feagus and Richard watching him keenly. ‘She’s living at Larry’s mill, you say?’ he said presently, without raising his eyes from the floor.
‘At Larry’s mill,’ repeated Feagus. ‘She’s living all alone, under a false name, at that ould antiquated rat-trap.’
‘Alone?’ repeated Conseltine meaningly.
‘Alone!’ repeated Feagus.
‘It’s ruin,’ said Conseltine, looking up,—‘it’s ruin for all of us if we don’t get that woman out of the way.’
‘Bedad it is, then,’ said Feagus. His pale face went whiter as he looked from Conseltine to Richard, and then back again, before stealing a look at Blake, who, with his chin propped in his hands and his elbows on the table, followed their dialogue as well as his muddled wits would allow, with his habitual expression of dogged humour slightly deepened. ‘See here, now,’ continued the lawyer; ‘we’re all friends here. The danger’s pressin’, and what’s goin’ to be done has got to be done quick.’
Conseltine’s generally smooth and expressionless face was as a book in which he read strange matter. Richard’s heavy hangdog countenance was white with rage and distorted with apprehension. Blake was the only one of the trio who preserved anything like his customary appearance.