‘Bedad! that’s true!’ returned Blake, as calmly as if Peebles had said ‘Good-day.’ ‘Ye ken it!’ cried the old man. ‘And how the deil d’ye ken it?’
‘That’s my business, sir,’ said Blake. ‘I do know it. She was in the churchyard last night wid a Scotch gentleman of your acquaintance!’
It was difficult to throw Peebles off his mental balance for long at a time, and, surprised as he was at Blake’s knowledge of the interview of the preceding night, he went on with a perfect apparent calm:
‘Weel, it should lighten your heart! Ay! ye should fall on your knees and thank God, who’s kinder to ye than ye deserve, that ye have not that puir lassie’s death on your conscience!’
‘Have ye come here to preach?’ asked Blake.
‘Na, na!’ said Peebles. ‘That’s not my business, but it’s yours, Mr. Ryan O’Connor, if a’ tales are true!’
There could be no mistaking the effect of this speech on Blake. He half rose from his seat, clutching the sides of the table with trembling hands, and stared at Peebles with his eyes standing out of his head with surprise.
‘And how the thunder did you know that?’ he asked.
‘That’s my business,’ retorted the old Scotchman dryly.
‘Holy powers!’ muttered Blake, falling back into his chair, and passing his hand across his eyes in a bewildered fashion. ‘’Tis dreamin’ I am!’