‘Hold your tongue, sir!’ snapped the nobleman. ‘How dare you address me in that fashion?’ ‘Come awa’, come awa’,’ repeated Peebles gently, as one speaks to a froward child. ‘Ye’ll be doing yourself a mischief.’ The old lord rose tremulously, and left the room on his servant’s arm. Mr. Conseltine stepped rapidly forward to open the door, and shook his brother’s hand as he passed from the room. Then, returning, he addressed Feagus, who was still puffing with anger. ‘Sit down, Mr. Feagus. Fill again, man, and wash the taste of that drunken blackguard out of your mouth. Yes, yes,’ he continued, seeing Feagus about to speak; ‘he’s all that you could call him, but he has to be endured; he knows too much to be crossed.’ ‘Knows?’ snorted Feagus; ‘and what does he know, then?’ Conseltine looked warily round before replying, and then, bending across the table till his face was within a foot of Feagus’s, he said in a low voice: ‘He knows all about Moya Macartney.’ ‘Moya Macartney!’ echoed his son. ‘And who, pray, is Moya Macartney?’ ‘She was a peasant girl, away down in Kenmare. My brother married her--a sham marriage--’Twas Blake that played priest for him, and pretended to be in Holy Orders.’ ‘That’s true!’ murmured Feagus. ‘And after--tell him what came of it!’ ‘The old story. Henry grew tired of his plaything. One day, when the child--they had a child--was two years old, he told Moya the truth. She went on like a madwoman for a time, and then went quite cold and quiet. Henry thought ’Twas all right, and that she had accepted the situation; but within two hours she disappeared, taking the child with her, and for a month or two nothing was heard of her.’ ‘Well?’ said Dick eagerly. ‘Then,’ continued Conseltine, ‘one night--a devilish cold winter’s night it was, too--the boy was brought to my brother with a letter. “Take your child,” the letter said, “and as you use him may God use you! You’ll never hear from me again.” ’Twas signed “Moya Macartney,” and a week later her body was found on the sands of Kenmare Bay.’ ‘A good riddance,’ said Feagus. ‘And now, Dick, guess the name of the child!’ Dick looked questioningly at his father, who said quietly: ‘The child is the Squireen, Desmond Macartney.’ Feagus gazed sideways from under his ponderous brows at young Conseltine. The boy’s sullen mask was almost as inscrutable as his father’s smooth face. ‘Does Desmond Macartney guess that he’s my lord’s son?’ asked the youth. ‘No,’ said Conseltine. ‘A story was trumped up that he was the orphan son of people to whom my brother owed obligations. He’s too big a fool to trouble himself asking questions.’ ‘Well, then,’ said Feagus, ‘spake out and let me know what ’tis ye fear.’