‘Know all there is to be known about this business of the Squireen,’ answered the elder. ‘What affair is it of his?’ ‘That you’ll not learn from me,’ responded his father: ‘not yet, at least. If it’s ever necessary you should know, I’ll tell you. Meanwhile, keep a still tongue and an open eye. It’s to the shebeen he’s going--we’ll follow him.’ They were close behind Blake’s heels by the time he had reached the door of the alehouse. He lurched round and faced them. ‘The divil and his imp,’ he remarked, as a polite salutation, and stumbled across the threshold with no further greeting than a drunken laugh. Peebles was in the kitchen, finishing a drink of whisky, and chatting with the widow. ‘Hullo! my king o’ Scots,’ hiccuped Blake. ‘You here? Drinkin’, too! Ye’ve taken to decent habits in your old age. Here! you’ll have another drink with me.’ ‘Indeed but I’ll no’,’ replied the sententious old Scot. ‘You won’t! You won’t drink?’ ‘Yes, with my friends,’ returned Peebles; ‘but I see none o’ them _here_.’ He set his glass upon the table, nodded to the widow, and went out to keep his already recorded interview with Moya in the churchyard. Blake laughed with drunken good humour. ’Tis a brave boy, old Peebles! He doesn’t trust me, but, after all, ’tis a question of taste, and no gentleman quarrels on such a ground. Bedad, I’m dry.’ He searched his pockets, and found them empty. ‘Here, you spalpeen,’ he continued, accosting Richard, ‘pay for a drink for me. Sure, ’twill be a luxury for you, and one you don’t often enjoy.’ ‘Bring some whisky, if you please, Mrs. Daly,’ said Conseltine smoothly, before Richard could muster his heavy wits to retort. ‘Sit down, Blake, and listen to me. Are ye sober enough to talk business?’ ‘I’m as sober as I need be,’ responded Blake; ‘and more sober than I want to be, at this hour o’ the night.’ ‘That’s easily cured,’ said Conseltine dryly, handing him a charged tumbler; ‘but don’t go too fast--this is business.’ ‘Discoorse,’ said Blake, tossing off the spirit, ‘and I’ll listen.’ The widow still lingered about the room, making pretence of trifling with some household task. Conseltine with a smooth voice bade her leave them to themselves, and she obeyed, after which he rose, and for greater security closed the door leading to the road. ‘Ye’re mighty mysterious,’ said Blake. ‘What is it, at all?’ ‘Have you heard what happened at the Castle this morning?’ asked Conseltine, leaning across the rude table at which the two were seated, and speaking in a whisper. ‘How the divil should I?’ asked Blake. ‘I’ve not been out of bed an hour, and I’d be there still, but the whisky gave out, and I kem here to wet my whistle.’ ‘’Tis better ye should hear it from me than from another,’ said Conseltine, in the same tone of extreme caution. ‘My son here made a fool of himself this morning.’ ‘Did he, now?’ returned Blake, with a laugh. ‘Sure his Creator did that for him twenty years ago.’