“May I ask to what I am indebted for this visit from Sir Everard Noel?” demanded Mr. Jyvecote haughtily.
“I shall explain the purport of my visit in a few words.”
“Pray be seated.”
“Thanks! Mr. Jyvecote, there was bad blood and bitter feud between you and my poor father about the Ottley Farm.”
“You need scarcely remind me of that, Sir Everard.”
“There is bad blood between us, Mr. Jyvecote. You claimed it in right of an old lease that could not be discovered when the case came before the court, and I retain possession of it by law. The last time that we met we met in hot anger, and—and I used expressions for which I am very seriously sorry. So long as that farm is in possession of either of us it will lead to bad feeling, and I came here to-day to tell you what I mean to do about it.”
A somewhat less stern frown appeared upon Mr. Jyvecote’s features as he listened.
“Last autumn accident threw me into the wildest portion of the west of Ireland, a place not unknown to you—Monamullin.”
“It is within seven miles of Moynalty Castle.”
“I am aware of that. I was the guest of one of the purest men that God Almighty ever made—Father Maurice O’Donnell.”