‘In his general condition, the drunken wastrel!’ said Peebles. ’Tis odd but he’s sae drunk he’ll not understand me when I speak to him. Mr. Blake! Mr. Blake!’ He shook the recumbent figure gently at first, and then more roughly, and at last elicited a husky growl. ‘Mr. Blake! Wake up, and speak to me. Man, I’ve news for ye, and a question to ask o’ ye. Wake up, wake up, for the love o’ Heaven!’ Blake swayed back in his seat and opened his eyes. His first act, half unconscious, was to hold out his hand towards the bottle, which Peebles snatched from him with the quickness of a conjurer. ‘Ye’ve had enough o’ that for one while, ye disgraceful object,’ he said. ‘Wake up, I tell ye! Wake up, and tell me what I want to know.’ ‘Oh, ’tis you, Misther Peebles!’ cried Blake. ‘Ay, ’tis mysel’,’ returned Peebles. ‘I’ve news for ye, when ye’re sufficiently sober to hear it.’ Blake, like the practised toper he was, pulled himself together, and succeeded in looking solemnly and preternaturally sober. ‘We’re alone?’ asked the old Scot, glancing cautiously round. ‘We are,’ said Blake. ‘Biddy’s gone to the village for more whisky.’ ‘Then listen,’ said Peebles. ‘Moya Macartney’s alive!’ He made the communication slowly and distinctly, and paused to mark its effect. ‘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!’ ‘Listen to me, Patrick Blake,’ said Peebles solemnly. ‘I met Moya Macartney last night. Poor lass! Her spirit’s sadly broken. Says she to me--“Peebles, it’s eighteen years since I spread the report of my own death; my hair is white, and my heart is broken; gang to Mr. Blake and ask him, as he values his own soul, to tell ye if ever he was in holy orders.”’