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."