‘He had a row with the Squireen, young Desmond Macartney, and let out what he knew about his birth.’ ‘’Tis the first time I knew that he knew anything about it,’ said Blake. ‘Was it you that trusted him with such a secret?’ ‘Never mind how he came to know,’ returned Conseltine. ‘He learned the secret. Desmond provoked him, and he blurted it out before everybody--Lady Dulcie, my brother, Peebles and all.’ ‘And he’s here to tell the tale?’ said Blake, with an air of drunken surprise. ‘Bedad, I’m a good man with my fists, but ’tis not I that would like to tell the Squireen that story.’ ‘Listen! Listen!’ said Conseltine, beating the tops of his fingers on the table a little impatiently. ‘D’ye mean to sit there, Dick Conseltine,’ said Blake, ‘an’ tell me that that rip of a son o’ yours told the Squireen all that, and there was no fight?’ ‘Devil a bit of a fight,’ answered Conseltine. ‘The boy was knocked clean out of time by the information. Well, when he came to, his lordship told him he’d acknowledge him before the world.’ ‘His lordship’s a gentleman!’ cried Blake. ‘By the Lord, he is! If only he could hold a dacent skinful o’ liquor, he’d be the finest gentleman in Ireland, bar none. And what did the Squireen say?’ ‘He cursed the father that begot him,’ returned Conseltine. ‘He shook the dust of the house off his feet, and swore he’d never cross the threshold again!’ ‘Then the boy’s like his father--a gentleman!’ cried Blake, with a drunken cheer. ‘Here’s to him, with three times three and all the honours! And what did the old man say to that?’ ‘It has made him seriously ill,’ answered Conseltine. ‘He has passed the day in bed, and has refused himself to everybody except Peebles. Now, Blake,’ he leaned further across the table, and fixed his keen eyes on the face of the drunken squire, ‘the time has come for a definite understanding between us.’ ‘Well?’ asked Blake. He made an obvious and partially successful attempt to sober himself. ‘Give me that jug o’ water.’ It was passed to him, and he drained it--to the great apparent refreshment and steadying of his wits. ‘A man has need of all his brains, Dick Conseltine, when ye speak in that tone of voice. Out with it--what hell-broth are ye brewing now?’ ‘There’s no new development yet,’ answered Conseltine, with a smile, ‘though something may occur at any moment with Henry in his present condition. But I want to know definitely, yes or no, are you for us or against us?’