“And you,” he marveled, “who knew so well his devilish cunning!  That clause I think was his last cruel jest.”

Kenny turned white.

“A trap!” he said.

“A trap,” said the doctor.  “And you’ve swallowed bait and trap and all.”

“How he must have hated me?”

“On the contrary,” said the little doctor warmly, “I think in his way he was fond of you.  He counted the hours until nightfall, that I know.”

“And I—­” said Kenny with a sharp intake of his breath, “I killed him with that story of the chair.”

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!” said the doctor kindly.  “Chair or no chair he would have died just the same.  I saw it coming.  And your presence there this summer freed him entirely from money worries.  He even paid me.”

“Yes,” said Kenny, “my money helped him drink himself to death.”

The doctor sighed.

“Oh, well,” he said, “that too would have happened just the same.”

Kenny brushed his hair back dazedly from his forehead and rose.  He felt as if he had fallen from a great height and hit his head.  It was numbly aquiver.  As he picked up the will and put it in his pocket, Adam Craig, sinister and unassailable, seemed to mock him from the grave.  His last trap!  Almost Kenny could hear him chuckle:  “Checkmate, Kenny, checkmate!  And the game is won.”  How well he had known his opponent’s excitable fancy!

“Doctor,” asked Kenny drearily, “why were all the books in the farmhouse in Adam’s room?”

“There,” said the doctor, “I think he meant to be kind.  Cordelia had had all sorts of schooling and so had he.  I think by denying the youngsters books and too much knowledge, he thought to clip their wings at the start and keep them contented.  In tune with the farm, I mean, and willing to stay.  He’d seen enough of ruinous discontent when his sister and himself went out in the world and tried their wings.  Just a fancy.  I may be wrong.  Well, Mr. O’Neill, I’m sorry.  There’s no mystery and no money—­”

“No,” said Kenny dully, “no mystery and no money.”  He moved toward the door with a curious trance-like feeling that this was still a part of his dream.

“Just a commonplace story of self,” said the doctor, following him to the door, “with two ragged little kids the victims.  Myself I think it’s just as well, Mr. O’Neill, to say as little as possible about things of this sort.  Tales up here grow.  And fire that isn’t fed goes out.  It’s bound to.  I never had the heart myself to deny the old man’s miser yarn.  When I do talk, I try to say as little as possible and keep my two feet solidly on the ground.”

He watched Kenny down the steps and into the buggy.

“Humph!” said the little doctor.  “Thought he had his fingers on a regular swap-dollinger of a mystery, didn’t he?  To my thinking, the only mystery in the farmhouse is himself!”