He had never had a better listener.  Adam Craig fixed his piercing eyes inscrutably upon the teller’s face, drank glass after glass of brandy, and remained polite, intent and silent.  Kenny, with his heart in the telling, went on to the tale of Conoclach and the first harp.  Conoclach, he said, hating Cull, her husband, had run away from him toward the sea.  There upon the sand lay the skeleton of a whale and the wind playing upon the taut sinews made sounds low and soothing enough to lull her to sleep.  And Cull, coming up, marveled at her slumber, heard the murmuring of the wind through the sinews and made the first harp.  Kenny liked the tale and he liked the way he told it.

Adam Craig nodded.

“Lies!” he said, springing the trap it had pleased him to bait with an air of courtesy, “All lies.”

Kenny flushed with annoyance.  The sacrilege of doubt when the tale was Irish jarred.

“Lies!” said Adam Craig again, “adapted centuries ago by some Irish word-thief.”

“You are pleased to be humorous,” said Kenny, glancing coldly at his host.

“I am pleased,” said the old man insolently, “to be truthful, not being Irish.  Fair, Brown and Trembling!” he added with a sneer.  “Word for word, it’s the tale of Cinderella.”

“The pattern for Cinderella!” corrected Kenny with a shrug.

Adam Craig glanced at him with narrowed eyes.

“And Finn McCoul and the bathing queen.  I can find you the German tale of a stolen veil from which it’s—­borrowed.”

“You can find me likely the name of a German who chose to delve into Gaelic for his plot.”

“You’ve a ready tongue.”

“There are times when it’s needed.”

“As for the first harp,” snapped Adam Craig, nettled, “there’s a Grecian lyre tale yonder on the shelf like it.”

“Liar tale,” said Kenny purposely misunderstanding.  Hum!  The Greeks, he remembered regretfully, were clever adapters.

His air of assurance incensed the old man.

“As for that fool of a Cuchullin,” he rasped, coughing a little, “where is he different from Achilles?”

“A little different,” said Kenny.  “Achilles, poor old scout, was much the inferior of the two.”

Again in fury Adam Craig coughed until it seemed that his life must end.  Again he drank.  Kenny knew by the flurried brightness of his eyes sunk deep in the yellowed gauntness of his face that he was drunk.  He shuddered and rose.  Already the old man’s head was drooping toward his chest in a drunken stupor.  With an effort he roused and leered.

“Cinderella, damn you!” he said.  “Cinderella and Achilles!”

“Cinderella,” repeated Kenny pityingly.  “Cinderella and Achilles.”

He stood uncertain what to do while Adam Craig slipped down in his chair.  Drunk, perverse and cruel!  With the rain beating at the windows Kenny thought of Joan, compassion in his heart, and rang for Hughie.