“Yes, I have; and it’s a sweet victory, I assure you.”

“Then shut up.  Shut up, I tell you.”

“All right!  I’m through—­forever.”

The Laird bent his beetling brows upon Nan.  “And you?” he demanded.  “Have you finished?”

She came to him and laid her soft cheek against his.  “You funny old man,” she whispered.  “Did you ever hear that I had begun?”

“Well, nae, I have not—­now that you mention it.  And, by the way, my dear!  Referring to my grandson’s half-brother?”

“Yes.”

“I understand he’s a McKaye.”

“Yes, Donald has legally adopted him.”

“Well, then, I’ll accept him as an adopted grandson, my dear.  I think there’ll be money enough for everybody.  But about this scalawag of a man that fathered him.  I’ll have to know who he is.  We have a suit of zebra clothing waiting for him, my dear.”

“No, you haven’t, Father McKaye.  My boy’s father is never going to be a convict.  That man has other children, too.”

“I’m going to have a glass frame made and in it I’m going to arrange photographic reproductions of all the documents in Nan’s case,” Donald stated.  “The history of the case will all be there, then, with the exception, of course, of the name of the man.  In deference to Nan’s desires I will omit that.  Then I’ll have that case screwed into the wall of the post-office lobby where all Port Agnew can see and understand—­”

“Nellie,” The Laird interrupted, “please stop fiddling with that baby and dress him.  Daughter, get my other grandson ready, and you, Donald, run over to the mill office.  My car is standing there.  Bring it here and we’ll all go home to The Dreamerie—­yes, and tell Daney to come up and help me empty a bottle to—­to—­to my additional family.  He’ll bring his wife, of course, but then we must endure the bitter with the sweet.  Good old file, Daney.  None better.”

Donald put on his cap and departed.  As the front gate closed behind him Hector McKaye sprang up and hurried out of the house after him.  “Hey, there, son,” he called into the darkness, “What was that you said about a glass case?”

Donald returned and repeated the statement of his plan.

“And you’re going to the trouble of explaining to this sorry world,” the old man cried sharply.  “Man, the longest day she lives there’ll be brutes that will say ’twas old man McKaye’s money that framed an alibi for her.’  Son, no man or woman was ever so pure that some hypocrite didn’t tread ’em under foot like dust and regard them as such.  Lad, your wife will always be dust to some folks, but—­we’re kindred to her—­so what do we care?  We understand.  Do not explain to the damned Pharisees.  They wouldn’t understand.  Hang that thing in the post-office lobby and some superior person will quote Shakespeare, and say:  ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’”

“Then you would advise me to tell the world to go to—­”