‘No! Can’t you understand that something must be done at once? That old fool is against us, so is Blake; and when Desmond Macartney hears that we’re concerned in his mother’s death, he’ll never rest till he’s hunted us down. Come away with me to Blake’s at once, and see what can be done with him.’ For some time Feagus was obdurate, but at last he listened to his companion’s arguments, and agreed to accompany him to Blake’s Hall. The way thither led by a track across the open moor or ‘mountain,’ and, after refreshing himself with one stiff tumbler of Jamieson at the inn, Feagus followed Conseltine through the drizzling rain. A dreary day, a dreary prospect. The ground was covered with a soft, soaked blanket of mud, moss, and heather, and low, gray vapours were trailing on every side across the rain-washed hills. Not one ray of sunlight broke the gloom, but far away to seaward moved a white mass like smoke, ever shifting and changing. The air was strangely still, for the rain was too thin and mist-like to produce the slightest sound. It was a miserable walk of three Irish miles from the village of Cordale to the valley inhabited by Blake. The two men hastened along in gloomy silence until they had covered half the distance. Then Feagus paused with an oath, and looked fiercely into the pale, determined face of his companion. ‘I’m a fool to follow ye!’ he cried. ‘I’d be a wiser man if I took the car to Sligo, and left ye here to fight the devils you’ve raised.’ ‘I tell you that we stand or fall together,’ said Conseltine. ‘That’s a lie! If I was an accessory before the fact, I can plade insufficiency of motive, and turn Queen’s evidence. What d’ye say to that, now?’ Conseltine’s face went a shade whiter, and its expression a shade uglier, as he glanced down at Feagus, and then surveyed the gloomy prospect surrounding him. For the moment his impulse was to spring upon his accomplice, and strangle him then and there; but Feagus, though small, was wiry, and fierce as a wild cat, and would have taken a great deal of killing. Momentary as the impulse was, it expressed itself clearly on his countenance, and was at once understood and appreciated by Feagus, who said with a savage and spiteful grin: ‘Wouldn’t ye like to get rid of me now, as ye got rid of poor Moya Macartney? So I’m a thorn in your side, Dick Conseltine? By the powers, I’ll be a bigger thorn yet, if ye don’t mind what you’re after!’ ‘You’re drunk,’ returned Conseltine, ‘and you talk like a child. Come along!’ And he walked slowly on. ‘A child, am I, and drunk?’ muttered Feagus, irresolute whether to follow or turn back. ‘Well, I’m neither too young nor too drunk to guess what game you’re after, my fine gintleman. If I’m not before ye, ’tis you that will be blowing the gaff, and denouncing me, to save your own skin. So I won’t leave ye yet awhile, I’m thinking.’