Kenny took the clipping to insure his future peace of mind.  Yes, Garry had displayed better judgment than, in the circumstances, might have been expected.  The article he saw at a glance was an excellent one and truthful.  He particularly liked the phrase “brilliant painter” and hoped Garry had troubled to read the thing through himself before he sent it.  It might inspire him to quotation in the grill-room.

Nevertheless, Kenny, with the clipping in his hand, had a picturesque moment of confusion.

“It—­it’s just the sort of thing we call a ‘blurb,’ Miss West!” he protested.

“It says in print,” said the girl, her eyes wide and direct, “what your son wrote in his letter.”

The heart of the lad!  Kenny had a bad minute.  Until with his quest upon the back of him he remembered Peredur and felt better.  Peredur had gone in quest of the Holy Grail.  And he had found fair ladies.  History, romance, legend, call it what you please, was merely repeating itself with the hero again Celtic and chivalrous.

With Peredur for precedent Kenny laughed softly, his eyes a-twinkle.

“Ah, well,” he said with a hint more of brogue than usual, “we’ve an Irish saying that there never was a fool who hadn’t another fool to admire him!  Trouble is,” he added, saving himself and Brian with a whimsical air of loyalty, “the lad is no fool!”

“It’s helped so,” said Joan, “to know that Don is with someone like your son.  I cried a great deal the first night but the next day there was Brian’s letter and Don’s.  And later this letter and you.”

Kenny understood.  Brian could thank him for arriving in time.  The mere sight of him had certified Brian’s respectability and guaranteed the runaway’s welfare.

And now—­he cleared his throat—­now he must ask if the brother had written later and supplied a clue.  It was utterly essential.  If he had—­Well, if he had, he had.  That’s all there was to it!  And he must do some thinking afterward, some painful thinking of the kind that drove him mad.  He wondered for a moment, with his fingers by force of habit traveling through his hair, if it really was dishonorable for him to take advantage of Garry’s letter to hunt his son to earth.  There was a subtlety there in which Garry might be right.

Inwardly in turmoil Kenny took the plunge.

“And you—­and you’ve heard from your brother!”

“No,” said the girl sadly.  “Not since.”

“Mother of Men!” said Kenny softly and drew a long breath.  The next step in his quest became all at once amazingly clear.  And Kennicott O’Neill was no man to shirk a duty, let John Whitaker say what he chose.  He was an unsuccessful parent, please God, trying to make good.

“And I,” said Kenny, “tramping the footsore, weary miles always with the hope of a letter and a clue!”

“I’m sorry,” said Joan, her brown eyes gentle.  “It would have been wonderful if I could have sent you straight to your son and Donald.”