‘It’s by no virtue o’ yours, Mr. Conseltine, that your wicked will was not worked. Moya Macartney, Lady Kilpatrick, is alive and safe. She was rescued from death by her son, Desmond Conseltine, sole lawfully begotten son and heir of my master, Lord Kilpatrick.’ ‘Damn you!’ cried Richard, leaping from the bed at these words with a flash of hysteric anger conquering his fears. ‘You come and tell us this! Father----!’ ‘Hold your tongue!’ said the elder man quietly. ‘Don’t play the fool, Richard Conseltine.’ Peebles looked at him with a kind of loathing admiration of his courage and coolness. ‘If you’ve any more to say, Mr. Peebles,’ Conseltine continued, ‘you’d better get it over.’ ‘Just this,’ said the old man: ‘ye’ll hold your tongue about the business till I see fit to speak. Ye’ll cease to trade on his lordship’s generosity, and rob the poor lad ye’ve kept out of his rights all these years, and the poor woman ye’ve tried to murder. And if in a day or two ye can manage to find some business o’ sufficient importance to tak’ ye awa’ oot o’ this place, and to keep ye awa’ oot o’t for the rest o’ your natural lives, so much the better. I don’t think,’ he added reflectively, as he scraped his lean jaws thoughtfully with his long fingers--‘I don’t think there’s any ither thing to be arranged. Ye’d better keep clear o’ Blake, perhaps.’ ‘One word, Mr. Peebles,’ said Conseltine, as the old man turned to go. ‘When do you intend to break to my brother the news of--of that woman being alive?’ ‘I canna preceesely tell ye,’ returned Peebles. ‘As soon’s I think he’s strong enough to hear it. In the mean time, Mr. Conseltine, ye’d best ca’ cannie. I’m secret in the game till ye try another move; but if ye do, I’ll split on ye, as sure as God’s in heaven!’ CHAPTER XIV.--LADY KILPATRICK. Peebles had left the Conseltines barely half an hour when a message was brought to him in his pantry that Mr. Blake of Blake’s Hall would be glad to have the pleasure of a word with him. Blake, being ushered into the old man’s private room, immediately demanded whisky, and, having been supplied, inquired of Peebles what was the news concerning Moya. ‘I met Larry as I was coming here. Sure, he’s like a madman, raving about the poor woman that must have been burned wid the mill, though sorra a chip of her bones or a rag of her dress have they found.’ ‘They’re no likely to find anything,’ said Peebles. ‘I went straight to Desmond last night, and he was just in time to rescue her from the awfu’ death the villains had plotted for her.’ ‘Glad am I to know it,’ said Blake. ‘Are the rogues laid by the heels yet?’