Kenny struck his head fiercely with his hand, raked his hair in the old familiar gesture and roamed turbulently around the room with the will in his hand.  He was conscious of that dangerous alertness in his brain that with him always presaged some unusual clarity of vision, a startling speed with the adding of two and two.  Four came now with bewildering conviction.  Fragments of the puzzle of mystery that had bothered him for days dropped dizzily into place, even the fairy mill and the Eve of All Souls.  What wonder that in a drunken fit of superstition Adam had staggered out to seek his dead!

With his hair in disarray from the frantic combing of his fingers, Kenny went down to find Joan.  He read the will aloud to her, controlling his voice with an effort.

“Don shall have the farm,” said Joan.  “I shouldn’t know what to do with it.”

Kenny read the baffling clause at the end of the will again.

“’All the rest, residue and remainder of my wealth, wheresoever situate, provided the executor can find it.’”

It seemed to him in his excitement that he could not tell her what he thought—­that he could not say it all with care and calm when his head was whirling.

“Joan,” he said gently, “you must tell me everything you remember about your mother and your father and your uncle.  And whether there was ever money.  Much money,” he insisted, his vivid face imploring.

Joan shook her head sadly.

“There is so little I remember, Kenny,” she said.  “So very little.  There was never money.  I do not remember my mother or my father.  Neither does Donald.  We lived until I was eight with an old cousin, Nellie Craig.  She said that uncle was a miser who loved nothing but his brandy.  Then she died and we came here.  We had to come.  There was no other place for us.  I remember that Don’s clothes and mine were always ragged until I grew old enough to mend them.  Then I found mother’s trunks in the garret.  Later Don and I thought of the ferry and had for the first time some money of our own.”

Kenny looked crestfallen.

“And there is nothing more?” he said.  “Think, Joan, think!”

“Nothing,” said Joan.  “Donald and I were afraid of Uncle.  We never dared to ask him questions.  And he never spoke of my mother save to sneer and curse the stage.  What is it, Kenny?  What are you thinking?”

“I think,” said Kenny, making a colossal effort to speak with the calm he could not feel, “that somewhere buried on the farm is a great deal of money.  I think it belonged to your mother and that it was left in trust to your uncle for Donald and you—­”

“Kenny!”

“I think,” went on Kenny steadily, “that this singular clause in your uncle’s will was a miser’s struggle between justice and his instinct for hoarding and hiding.  Money he had kept so long he hated to relinquish.  Yet he dared not keep it.  And so he buried the money.  God knows how or where, and shunted the responsibility of its finding upon me.  If it was never found, as perhaps he hoped, he had still fulfilled his trust and the dictates of his conscience in willing the money back to you.”