A fire burned in the open fireplace. Lamp-light softened the
shabbiness of the old room and shone pleasantly on dark wood and a
great many faded books. Later Kenny knew that every book in the
farmhouse was here upon his shelves. Adam Craig sat huddled in a
wheelchair. Kenny thought of the runaway who hated him. He thought of
Joan. He thought of the bleak old rooms that seemed one in spirit with
the man before him. A wrinkled, evil old man, he told himself with a
shudder, with piercing eyes and a face Italian in its subtlety.

Adam Craig looked steadily at the Irishman in the doorway and found his
stare returned. The gaze of neither faltered. So began what Kenny,
when his singular relations with the old man had goaded him to startled
appraisal, was pleased to call a "friendship that was never a
friendship and a feud that was never a feud."

"I sent you a message," said Adam Craig.

"Your niece brought it."

The old man tapped with slender, wasted fingers upon the arm of his
chair.

"What was it?" he asked guilelessly.

"As I remember it," stammered Kenny in surprise, "you were good enough
to say that I might stay here as long as I chose."

"Like all women and some Irishmen," said Adam Craig, "she lied. I said
you could stay as long as you were willing to pay."