‘What the deuce are you dreaming about, Peebles?’ he had asked, as the old servitor made some slight blunder in the service at his master’s solitary dinner-table.
‘If ye had an inkling of what I am dreaming about,’ Peebles had responded, with his customary drawl, ‘ye’d be in nae such a hurry to speer, maybe.’
At which his lordship had muttered an angry ‘Pshaw!’ and turned his face away.
‘Is there any news of—of Desmond?’ he asked a minute later.
‘No, my lord,’ answered Peebles; ‘none that I ken o’.’
He was in so mortal a dread of prematurely letting slip the secret of Moya’s presence in the neighbourhood that he would not trust himself to approach the subject at all.
‘Where is he?’ asked Kilpatrick.
‘They say he’s at Doolan’s farm,’ answered Peebles.
‘They say!’ snapped his lordship. ‘As if you didn’t know where the boy is, you disingenuous old brute!’
‘Oh ay!’ said Peebles tranquilly. ‘Swear at me, wi’ a’ my heart, if it will ease your lordship’s heart, or your conscience.’