‘Verra drunk!’ said Peebles. ‘It’s seldom he gets such liquor as comes out o’ your cellar, my lord.’ ‘I suppose so,’ said Kilpatrick absently; ‘I suppose so. Well, you can help me to undress, Peebles, and then you can tell Mr. Feagus--you can tell him--tell him I’ll write him regarding the business I have in hand.’ Peebles, his face hidden in the darkness which surrounded the little circle of light cast by the reading-lamp, smiled sourly. ‘Verra weel, my lord,’ he said; and Kilpatrick, rising, accepted his arm as a support to his bedroom. Half an hour later Peebles descended to the dining-room, where he found Mr. Feagus with his head on the table and one arm curled lovingly round an empty bottle. It took some trouble to rouse him, and even when awakened he was for a time oblivious of his surroundings. At last, dimly defining the figure of Peebles, he took him for Blake, and rising with a sort of paralytic alertness, bade the old man stand upon his defence. Peebles, from a safe distance, proclaimed his identity; thereupon the lawyer, relinquishing his pugnacious ardour, wept copiously, and would have embraced him. ‘Gang hame--gang hame, now!’ said Peebles, repulsing him; thereupon Mr. Feagus’s tears ran faster. ‘My lord will send for ye if he should hae need o’ ye.’ ‘You’ll come and have a drink with me, just for the sake of old times, Mr. Peebles?’ said Feagus. ‘Ye’ve had drink enough,’ said Peebles; ‘gang hame!’ and bundled him through the French window opening on the lawn. Finding himself in the open air, Feagus made straight by instinct for the high road. Peebles stood at the window watching him tacking and reeling along the path until he had passed out of sight, and was about to return and close the window, when he heard a voice hailing him-- ‘Misther Paybles! Misther Paybles!’ Peering into the darkness, he made out a dim form approaching him. ‘Who is it?’ he asked. ‘’Tis me, sure--Larry.’ Peebles recognised the lad, a henchman of Desmond’s, a village loafer, generally to be found in the company either of the Squireen or of Lady Dulcie’s maid, Rosie. ‘Weel, Larry! What hae ye there?’ ‘’Tis a letther!’ panted Larry. ‘For my lord?’ ‘No, ’tis for yourself.’ ‘And where did ye get it?’ ‘I met a poor woman at the foot o’ the hill, and she asked me if I knew one Misther Paybles. “Sure I do,” says I. “Then,” ses she, “will ye earn the blessin’ on a poor craythur by givin’ this into his own hand?” “I will,” ses I--and here I am.’ Peebles accepted the scrap of paper Larry held out to him, and walking to the chimneypiece, read it by the light of the lamp: ‘One who comes from Kenmare, and who knew Moya Macartney’--he started, but, remembering Larry’s presence, controlled himself and read on--‘would like to speak with him who was the best of friends to that poor colleen before she died. Will you meet the writer at ten tomorrow night in the churchyard by the lake-side and hear her message, for poor Moya’s sake?’