"Ah, well," he said with a hint more of brogue than usual, "we've an Irish saying that there never was a fool who hadn't another fool to admire him! Trouble is," he added, saving himself and Brian with a whimsical air of loyalty, "the lad is no fool!" "It's helped so," said Joan, "to know that Don is with someone like your son. I cried a great deal the first night but the next day there was Brian's letter and Don's. And later this letter and you." Kenny understood. Brian could thank him for arriving in time. The mere sight of him had certified Brian's respectability and guaranteed the runaway's welfare. And now--he cleared his throat--now he must ask if the brother had written later and supplied a clue. It was utterly essential. If he had--Well, if he had, he had. That's all there was to it! And he must do some thinking afterward, some painful thinking of the kind that drove him mad. He wondered for a moment, with his fingers by force of habit traveling through his hair, if it really was dishonorable for him to take advantage of Garry's letter to hunt his son to earth. There was a subtlety there in which Garry might be right. Inwardly in turmoil Kenny took the plunge. "And you--and you've heard from your brother!" "No," said the girl sadly. "Not since." "Mother of Men!" said Kenny softly and drew a long breath. The next step in his quest became all at once amazingly clear. And Kennicott O'Neill was no man to shirk a duty, let John Whitaker say what he chose. He was an unsuccessful parent, please God, trying to make good. "And I," said Kenny, "tramping the footsore, weary miles always with the hope of a letter and a clue!" "I'm sorry," said Joan, her brown eyes gentle. "It would have been wonderful if I could have sent you straight to your son and Donald." "Wonderful!" repeated Kenny with a vague air of enthusiasm. But he rather wished she hadn't said it. "What will you do?" "I shall find an inn," said Kenny firmly, "and stay here until you do hear." "There is no inn." "Then," said Kenny irresponsibly, "I shall camp here under the willow, buying beans. I have a can opener." He caught in Joan's eyes a glint of gold and laughter and glanced wistfully across the river at the house upon the cliff. It was undeniably roomy. "If only your house had been an inn!" he said. "An old, old ramshackle inn, quaint and archaic like the punt yonder and your gown! It's such a wonderful spot." Joan met his eyes and made no pretense of misunderstanding. She could not. "Your uncle!" exclaimed Kenny with an air of inspiration and then looked apologetic. The girl's face flamed. Oddly enough she looked at her gown. Kenny wondered why. He found her distress and the hot color of her face mystifying and lovely.