Hughie’s horrified face of warning turned her cold with foreboding.  Hannah turned and gasped.

Joan stood behind her.

“Hannah,” she asked, “what did you say?”

“I—­I don’t know,” said Hannah, scarlet with confusion.  “I’m all unstrung and my head’s queer—­”

Hughie went out and slammed the door.

“You said that Mr. O’Neill—­buried—­the money—­in Uncle’s fireplace!” repeated Joan distinctly.  She caught Hannah’s arm, her dark frightened eyes imploring.  “Hannah, did he?”

Shaking, Hannah put her apron to her eyes.  “Hannah, you must tell me.  It is important that I know.  No, don’t cry.  Did Mr. O’Neill bury the money—­in Uncle’s fireplace?”

“Yes,” choked Hannah in a low voice.  “Oh, Hughie will never forgive me!”

“How do you know?”

“The doctor.  Hughie went on diggin’, thinking there must be more, until he was sick with nerves.  The doctor had to tell him.”

“And how did the doctor know?”

The girl’s strained quiet helped Hannah to regain her self-control.

“Mr. O’Neill went to Rink’s hotel to telephone,” she faltered, wiping her eyes, “and Sam Acker put his ear to the door.  He—­he telephoned for a lot of ragged money—­”

Joan caught her breath.

“And then a week later,” gulped Hannah, “when the doctor came to tend his wife, Sam told it, for Mr. O’Neill had said the doctor sent him there to telephone.  And the doctor never would have told but for Hughie’s nerves.  He said so when he pledged us both to keep it secret.  He spoke wonderful about Mr. O’Neill.  That I must say.  And he called him somebody Donkeyhote—­”

“Where is Mr. O’Neill?”

“He drove down to the village with Mr. Rittenhouse for the mail.”

Joan glided away like a shadow.

Don Quixote!  And so he had done that strange, fantastic thing for her—­and she had given the money away to Don!  Joan stopped at the foot of the stairway, her face colorless and unbelieving, her mind casting up a vivid picture of the night of search in the sitting room.  It—­could—­not—­be!

Ah, but it could!  For Kenny, reckless and on his mettle, was a finished actor.  And the morning at the telephone!  His silence and constraint had bothered her then not a little.  Later, whirling through the blizzard in a taxi, he had begged her not to do it.  And he had surrendered in the end with a sigh and smiled and kissed her.  His eyes, warmly blue, irresistibly Irish in their tenderness, seemed now to stare at her with sad reproach.  Ah, the kindness of him!  Hot stinging tears rolled slowly down the girl’s white cheeks.

“Joan!” It was Brian’s voice behind her.

Joan turned, trembling, blinked and smiled.

Something in her face drove his memory back to the moonlit wood.  Niobe on the verge of a passion of tears!

“You look like a sad little brown thrush,” he said gently.