he Colonel gave one of the houses
to Mary--Mrs. Craig she was by that time--and the other to Evelyn when
she married Irv Walton a year afterwards."

"But look here," said Wade. "Do you mean that Ed Craig's mother and Miss
Walton's mother were sisters?"

"Yes, Ed and Eve was first cousins."

"Well, I'll be hanged!" sighed Wade. "I never savvied that. What became
of Mr. Walton, Ed's uncle?"

"Dead. Irv was what you call a genius, a writer chap. Came of a good
family over to Concord, he did, an' had a fine education at Exeter
Academy. He an' his wife never lived much at The Cedars--that's what
they called their place--but used to come here now and then in the
summer. They lived in New York. He had something to do with one of those
magazines published down there. Irv Walton was a fine lookin' man, but
sort of visionary. Made a lot of money at one time in mines out West an'
then lost it all about four years ago. That sort of preyed on his mind,
an' somethin' like a year after that he up an' died."

"And his wife?"

"Oh, she died when Eve was a little girl. An' Ed's mother died about
ten years ago. Miss Eve's the last one of the old Colonel's folks."

Wade sat silent for a minute, puffing hard on his cigar and trying to
arrange his facts.

"Does she know of Ed's death?" he asked.

"Miss Eve? Oh, I guess so. I told Doctor Crimmins myself last night an'
I guess he's been up to The Cedars by this time. I guess Ed's death
wouldn't affect her much, though."

"Why is that?"

"Well, the brothers-in-law never got on very well together in the old
days, an' far as I know Miss Eve never saw Ed except, perhaps, when they
were both babies. Ed went away to school, winters down to Boston, to a
school of tech--tech--well, a place where they taught him engineerin'
an' minin' an' such. Summers he worked in a mill over to Lansing."

"Is Miss Walton well off?"

"Only tolerable, I guess. She's got that house and what little money
was saved out of her father's smash-up."

"Where does she live when she's not here, Mr. Prout?"

"New York. She does some sort of writing work, like her father.
Inherited some of his genius, I guess likely."

Later Wade walked leisurely back to the cottage. The afternoon sunlight
lay in golden ribbons across the deserted street. Up in the high elms
the robins were swaying and singing. An ancient buggy crawled past him
and here and there an open window framed a housewife busy with her
needle. But save