THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
tle. “Give me a drink—I can talk no more. The words are all—parchin’ in my throat.”
Mornay sank back upon his bench, while the Irishman filled and drained his cup. At last he gave a great grunt of satisfaction, and with smiling face set the vessel down upon the table with a clatter.
“Ochone! Talking is but a dry thrade.”
“Allons, Captain,” said Mornay, “tell me all.”
He drew the platter over and helped himself liberally from the pâté.
“Well, monsieur, when I went back, Heywood was making a kind of statement to Ferrers—something in the nature of a dying confession. It appears that this fellow Heywood is a thieving rascal, and if ye’ve killed him ’tis good riddance, say I.” He paused a moment to pour his wine. “As ye know,” he continued, his mouth full—“as ye know, the man is the guardian of Mistress Barbara Clerke. He has the disposition in the law of her fortune. Well, from what he confesses, ’tis not her fortune, after all.”
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