Seth's drive to Eastboro was a dismal journey. Joshua pounded along over the wet sand or through ruts filled with water, and not once during the trip was he ordered to “Giddap” or “Show some signs of life.” Not until the first scattered houses of the village were reached did the lightkeeper awaken from his trance sufficiently to notice that the old horse was limping slightly with the right forefoot.

“Hello!” exclaimed Seth. “What's the matter with you, Josh?”

Joshua slopped on, but this was a sort of three-legged progress. The driver leaned forward and then pulled on the reins.

“Whoa!” he ordered. “Stand still!”

Joshua stood still, almost with enthusiasm. Seth tucked the end of the reins between the whip socket and the dashboard, and swung out of the wagon to make an examination. Lifting the lame foot, he found the trouble at once. The shoe was loose.

“Humph!” he soliloquized. “Cal'late you and me'll have to give Benijah a job. Well,” climbing back into the vehicle, “I said I'd never give him another after the row we had about the last, but I ain't got ambition enough to go clear over to the Denboro blacksmith's. I don't care. I don't care about nothin' any more. Giddap.”

Benijah Ellis's little, tumble-down blacksmith shop was located in the main street of Eastboro, if that hit-or-miss town can be said to possess a main street. Atkins drove up to its door, before which he found Benijah and a group of loungers inspecting an automobile, the body of which had been removed in order that the engine and running gear might be the easier reached. The blacksmith was bending over the car, his head and shoulders down amidst the machinery; a big wrench was in his hand, and other wrenches, hammers, and tools of various sizes were scattered on the ground beside him.

“Hello, Benije,” grunted Seth.

Ellis removed his nose from its close proximity to the gear shaft and straightened up. He was a near-sighted, elderly man, and wore spectacles. Just now his hands, arms, and apron were covered with grease and oil, and, as he wiped his forehead with the hand not holding the wrench, he left a wide mourning band across it.

“Well?” he panted. “Who is it? Who wants me?”

One of the loafers, who had been assisting the blacksmith by holding his pipe while he dove into the machinery, languidly motioned toward the new arrival. Benijah adjusted his spectacles and walked over to the wagon.

“Who is it?” he asked crossly. Then, as he recognized his visitor, he grunted: “Ugh! it's you, hey. Well, what do YOU want?”

“Want you to put a new shoe on this horse of mine,” replied Seth, not too graciously.

“Is that so! Well, I'm busy.”

“I don't care if you be. I guess you ain't so busy you can't do a job of work. If you are, you're richer'n I ever heard you was.”

“I want to know! Maybe I'm particular who I work for, Seth Atkins.”

“Maybe you are. I ain't so particular; if I was, I wouldn't come here, I tell you that. This horse of mine's got a loose shoe, and I want him attended to quick.”

“Thought you said you'd never trust me with another job.”

“I ain't trustin' you now. I'll be here while it's done. And I ain't askin' you to trust me, neither. I'll pay cash—cash, d'ye understand?”

The bystanders grinned. Mr. Ellis's frown deepened. “I'm busy,” he declared, with importance. “I've got Mr. Delancey Barry's automobile to fix, and I can't stop to bother with horses—specially certain kind of horses.”

This sneer at Joshua roused his owner's ire. He dropped the reins and sprang to the ground.

“See here, Benije Ellis,” he growled, advancing upon the repairer of automobiles, who retreated a step or two with promptness. “I don't care what you're fixin', nor whose it is, neither. I guess 'twill be 'fixed' all right when you get through with it, but that ain't neither here nor there. And it don't make no difference if it does belong to Mr. Barry. If 'twas Elijah's chariot of fire 'twould be just the same. That auto won't be done this afternoon, and nobody expects it to be. Here's my horse sufferin' to be shod; I want him shod and I've got the money to pay for it. When it's winter time you're around cryin' that you can't earn money to pay your bills. Now, just because it's summer and there's city big-bugs in the neighborhood innocent enough to let you tinker with their autos—though they'll never do it but once—I don't propose to be put off. If you won't shoe this horse of mine I'll know it's because you've got so much money you don't need more. And if that's the case, there's a whole lot of folks would be mighty glad to know it—Henry G. Goodspeed for one. I'm goin' up to his store now. Shall I tell him?”

This was a shot in the bull's-eye. Mr. Ellis owed a number of bills, had owed them for a long time, and Mr. Goodspeed's was by no means the smallest. The loafers exchanged winks, and the blacksmith's manner became more conciliatory.

“I didn't say I wouldn't do it for you, Seth,” he pleaded. “I'm always willin' to do your work. You're the one that's been complainin'.”

“Ugh! Well, I'm likely to complain some more, but the complaint's one thing, and the need's another. I'm like Joel Knowles—he said when he couldn't get whisky he worried along best he could with bay rum. I need a blacksmith, and if I can't get a real one I'll put up with an imitation. Will you shoe this horse for me?”

“Course I'll shoe him. But I can't do it this minute. I've got this consarned machine,” waving a hand toward the automobile, “out of door here and all to pieces. And it's goin' to rain. Just let me put enough of it together so's I can shove it into the shop out of the wet, and then I'll tackle your job. You leave your horse and team here and go do your other errands. He'll be ready when you come back.”

So on this basis the deal was finally made. Seth was reluctant to trust the precious Joshua out of his sight, but, after some parley, he agreed to do so. The traces were unfastened, and the animal was led into the shop, the carriage was backed under a shed, and the lightkeeper went away promising to be back in an hour. As soon as he had gone, Ellis dived again into the vitals of the auto.

The argument with the blacksmith had one satisfactory result so far as Seth was concerned. In a measure it afforded a temporary vent for his feelings. He was moderately agreeable during his brief stay at the grocery store, and when his orders were given and he found the hour not half over, he strolled out to walk about the village. And then, alone once more, all his misery and heartache returned. He strode along, his head down, scarcely speaking to acquaintances whom he met, until he reached the railway station, where he sat down on the baggage truck to mentally review, over and over again, the scene with Emeline and the dreadful collapse of his newborn hopes and plans.

As he sat there, the door of the station opened and a man emerged, a man evidently not a native of Eastboro. He was dressed in a rather loud, but somewhat shabby, suit of summer plaid, his straw hat was set a trifle over one ear, and he was smoking the stump of a not too fragrant cigar. Altogether he looked like a sporting character under a temporary financial cloud, but the cloud did not dim his self-satisfaction nor shadow his magnificent complaisance. He regarded the section of Eastboro before him with condescending scorn, and then, catching sight of the doleful figure on the baggage truck, strolled over and addressed it.

“I say, my friend,” he observed briskly, “have you a match concealed about your person? If so, I—”

He stopped short, for Mr. Atkins, after one languid glance in his direction, had sprung from the truck and was gazing at him as if he was some apparition, some figure in a nightmare, instead of his blase self. And he, as he looked at the lightkeeper's astounded countenance, dropped the cigar stump from his fingers and stepped backward in alarmed consternation.

“You—you—YOU?” gasped Seth.

“YOU!” repeated the stranger.

“You!” cried Seth again; not a brilliant nor original observation, but, under the circumstances, excusable, for the nonchalant person in the plaid suit was Emeline Bascom's brother-in-law, the genius, the “inventor,” the one person whom he hated—and feared—more than anyone else in the world—Bennie D. himself.

There was a considerable interval during which neither of the pair spoke. Seth, open-mouthed and horror-stricken, was incapable of speech, and the inventor's astonishment seemed to be coupled with a certain nervousness, almost as if he feared a physical assault. However, as the lightkeeper made no move, and his fists remained open, the nervousness disappeared, and Bennie D. characteristically took command of the situation.

“Hum!” he observed musingly. “Hum! May I ask what you are doing here?”

“Huh—hey?” was Seth's incoherent reply.

“I ask what you are doing here? Have you followed me?”

“Fol-follered you? No.”

“You're sure of that, are you?”

“Yes, I be.” Seth did not ask what Bennie D. was doing there. Already that question was settled in his mind. The brother-in-law had found out that Emeline was living next door to the man she married, that her summer engagement was over, and he had come to take her away.

“Well?” queried the inventor sharply, “if you haven't followed me, what are you doing here? What do you mean by being here?”

“I belong here,” desperately. “I work here.”

“You do? And may I ask what particular being is fortunate enough to employ you?”

“I'm keeper down to the lighthouses, if you want to know. But I cal'late you know it already.”

Bennie D.'s coolness was not proof against this. He started.

“The lighthouses?” he repeated. “The—what is it they call them?—the Twin-Lights?”

“Yes. You know it; what's the use of askin' fool questions?”

The inventor had not known it—until that moment, and he took time to consider before making another remark. His sister-in-law was employed as housekeeper at some bungalow or other situated in close proximity to the Twin-Lights; that he had discovered since his arrival on the morning train. Prior to that he had known only that she was in Eastboro for the summer. Before that he had not been particularly interested in her location. Since the day, two years past, when, having decided that he had used her and her rapidly depleting supply of cash as long as was safe or convenient, he had unceremoniously left her and gone to New York to live upon money supplied by a credulous city gentleman, whom his smooth tongue had interested in his “inventions,” he had not taken the trouble even to write to Emeline. But within the present month the New Yorker's credulity and his “loans” had ceased to be material assets. Then Bennie D., face to face with the need of funds, remembered his sister and the promise given his dead brother that he should be provided with a home as long as she had one.

He journeyed to Cape Ann and found, to his dismay, that she was no longer there. After some skillful detective work, he learned of the Eastboro engagement and wrote the letter—a piteous, appealing letter, full of brotherly love and homesickness—which, held back by the storm, reached Mrs. Bascom only that morning. In it he stated that he was on his way to her and was counting the minutes until they should be together once more. And he had, as soon after his arrival in the village as possible, 'phoned to the Lights and spoken with her. Her tone, as she answered, was, he thought, alarmingly cold. It had made him apprehensive, and he wondered if his influence over her was on the wane. But now—now he understood. Her husband—her husband, of all people—had been living next door to her all summer. No doubt she knew he was there when she took the place. Perhaps they had met by mutual agreement. Why, this was appalling! It might mean anything. And yet Seth did not look triumphant or even happy. Bennie D. resolved to show no signs of perturbation or doubt, but first to find out, if he could, the truth, and then to act accordingly.

“Mr. Bascom—” he began. The lightkeeper, greatly alarmed, interrupted him.

“Hush!” he whispered. “Don't say that. That ain't my name—down here.”

“Indeed? What is your name?”

“Down here they call me Seth Atkins.”

Bennie D. looked puzzled. Then his expression changed. He was relieved. When he 'phoned to the Lights—using the depot 'phone—the station agent had seemed to consider his calling a woman over the lighthouse wire great fun. The lightkeeper, so the agent said, was named Atkins, and was a savage woman-hater. He would not see a woman, much less speak to one; it was a standing joke in the neighborhood, Seth's hatred of females. That seemed to prove that Emeline and her husband were not reconciled and living together, at least. Possibly their being neighbors was merely a coincidence. If so, he might not have come too late. When he next addressed his companion it was in a different tone and without the “Mister.”

“Bascom—or—er—Atkins,” he said sharply, “I hoped—I sincerely hoped that you and I might not meet during my short stay here; but, as we have met, I think it best that we should understand each other. Suppose we walk over to that clump of trees on the other side of the track. We shall be alone there, and I can say what is necessary. I don't wish—even when I remember your behavior toward my sister—to humiliate you in the town where you may be trying to lead a better life. Come.”

He led the way, and Seth, yielding as of old to this man's almost hypnotic command over him and still bewildered by the unexpected meeting, followed like a whipped dog. Under the shelter of the trees they paused.

“Now then,” said Bennie D., “perhaps you'll tell me what you mean by decoying my sister down here in my absence, when I was not present to protect her. What do you mean by it?”

Seth stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Decoyin' her?” he repeated. “I never decoyed her. I've been here ever since I left—left you and her that night. I never asked her to come. I didn't know she was comin'. And she didn't know I was here until—until a month or so ago. I—”

Bennie D. held up a hand. He was delighted by this piece of news, but he did not show it.

“That will do,” he said. “I understand all that. But since then—since then? What do you mean by trying to influence her as you have? Answer me!”

The lightkeeper rubbed his forehead.

“I ain't tried to influence her,” he declared. “She and me have scarcely seen each other. Nobody knows that we was married, not even Miss Graham nor the young feller that's—that's my helper at the lights. You must know that. She must have wrote you. What are you talkin' about?”

She had not written; he had received no letters from her during the two years, but again the wily “genius” was equal to the occasion. He looked wise and nodded.

“Of course,” he said importantly. “Of course. Certainly.”

He hesitated, not knowing exactly what his next move should be. And Seth, having had time to collect, in a measure, his scattered wits, began to do some thinking on his own account.

“Say,” he said suddenly, “if you knew all this aforehand, what are you askin' these questions for?”

“That,” Bennie D.'s gesture was one of lofty disdain, “is my business.”

“I want to know! Well, then, maybe I've got some business of my own. Who made my business your business? Hey?”

“The welfare of my sister—”

“Never you mind your sister. You're talkin' with me now. And you ain't got me penned up in a house, neither. By jiminy crimps!” His anger boiled over, and, to the inventor's eyes, he began to look alarmingly alive. “By jiminy crimps!” repeated Seth, “I've been prayin' all these years to meet you somewheres alone, and now I've a good mind to—to—”

His big fist closed. Bennie D. stepped backward out of reach.

“Bascom—” he cried, “don't—”

“Don't you call me that!”

“Bascom—” The inventor was thoroughly frightened, and his voice rose almost to a shout.

The lightkeeper's wrath vanished at the sound of the name. If any native of Eastboro, if the depot master on the other side of the track, should hear him addressed as “Bascom,” the fat would be in the fire for good and all. The secret he had so jealously guarded would be out, and all the miserable story would, sooner or later, be known.

“Don't call me Bascom,” he begged. “Er—please don't.”

Bennie D.'s courage returned. Yet he realized that if a trump card was to be played it must be then. This man was dangerous, and, somehow or other, his guns must be spiked. A brilliant idea occurred to him. Exactly how much of the truth Seth knew he was not sure, but he took the risk.

“Very well then—Atkins,” he said contemptuously. “I am not used to aliases—not having dealt with persons finding it necessary to employ them—and I forget. But before this disagreeable interview is ended I wish you to understand thoroughly why I am here. I am here to protect my sister and to remove her from your persecution. I am here to assist her in procuring a divorce.”

“A divorce! A DIVORCE! Good heavens above!”

“Yes, sir,” triumphantly, “a divorce from the man she was trapped into marrying and who deserted her. You did desert her, you can't deny that. So long as she remains your wife, even in name, she is liable to persecution from you. She understands this. She and I are to see a lawyer at once. That is why I am here.”

Seth was completely overwhelmed. A divorce! A case for the papers to print, and all of Ostable county to read!

“I—I—I—” he stammered, and then added weakly, “I don't believe it. She wouldn't . . . There ain't no lawyer here.”

“Then we shall seek the one nearest here. Emeline understands. I 'phoned her this morning.”

“Was it YOU that 'phoned?”

“It was. Now—er—Atkins, I am disposed to be as considerate of your welfare as possible. I know that any publicity in this matter might prejudice you in the eyes of your—of the government officials. I shall not seek publicity, solely on your account. The divorce will be obtained privately, provided—PROVIDED you remain out of sight and do not interfere. I warn you, therefore, not to make trouble or to attempt to see my sister again. If you do—well, if you do, the consequences will be unpleasant for you. Do you understand?”

Seth understood, or thought he did. He groaned and leaned heavily against a tree trunk.

“You understand, do you?” repeated Bennie D. “I see that you do. Very good then. I have nothing more to say. I advise that you remain—er—in seclusion for the next few days. Good-by.”

He gave a farewell glance at the crushed figure leaning against the tree. Then he turned on his heel and walked off.

Seth remained where he was for perhaps ten minutes, not moving a muscle. Then he seemed to awaken, looked anxiously in the direction of the depot to make sure that no one was watching, pulled his cap over his eyes, jammed his hands into his pockets, and started to walk across the fields. He had no fixed destination in mind, had no idea where he was going except that he must go somewhere, that he could not keep still.

He stumbled along, through briers and bushes, paying no attention to obstacles such as fences or stone walls until he ran into them, when he climbed over and went blindly on. A mile from Eastboro, and he was alone in a grove of scrub pines. Here he stopped short, struck his hands together, and groaned aloud:

“I don't believe it! I don't believe it!”

For he was beginning not to believe it. At first he had not thought of doubting Bennie D.'s statement concerning the divorce. Now, as his thoughts became clearer, his doubts grew. His wife had not mentioned the subject in their morning interview. Possibly she would not have done so in any event, but, as the memory of her behavior and speech became clearer in his mind, it seemed to him that she could not have kept such a secret. She had been kinder, had seemed to him more—yes, almost—why, when he asked her to be his again, to give him another chance, she had hesitated. She had not said no at once, she hesitated. If she was about to divorce him, would she have acted in such a way? It hardly seemed possible.

Then came the letter and the telephone message. It was after these that she had said no with decision. Perhaps . . . was it possible that she had known of her brother-in-law's coming only then? Now that he thought of it, she had not gone away at once after the talk over the 'phone. She had waited a moment as if for him to speak. He, staggered and paralyzed by the sight of his enemy's name in that letter, had not spoken and then she . . . He did not believe she was seeking a divorce! It was all another of Bennie D.'s lies!

But suppose she was seeking it. Or suppose—for he knew the persuasive power of that glib tongue only too well—suppose her brother-in-law should persuade her to do it. Should he sit still—in seclusion, as his late adviser had counseled—and let this irrevocable and final move be made? After a divorce—Seth's idea of divorces were vague and Puritanical—there would be no hope. He and Emeline could never come together after that. And he must give her up and all his hopes of happiness, all that he had dreamed of late, would be but dreams, never realities. No! he could not give them up. He would not. Publicity, scandal, everything, he could face, but he would not give his wife up without a fight. What should he do?

For a long time he paced up and down beneath the pines trying to plan, to come to some decision. All that he could think of was to return to the Lights, to go openly to the bungalow, see Emeline and make one last appeal. Bennie D. might be there, but if he was—well, by jiminy crimps, let him look out, that's all!

He had reached this point in his meditations when the wind, which had been steadily increasing and tossing the pinetops warningly, suddenly became a squall which brought with it a flurry of rain. He started and looked up. The sky was dark, it was late in the afternoon, and the storm he had prophesied had arrived.

Half an hour later he ran, panting and wet, into the blacksmith's shop. The automobile was standing in the middle of the floor, and Mr. Ellis was standing beside it, perspiring and troubled.

“Where's Joshua?” demanded Seth.

“Hey?” inquired the blacksmith absently.

“Where's my horse? Is he ready?”

Benijah wiped his forehead.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed. “By . . . gosh!”

“What are you b'goshin' about?”

“Seth—I don't know what you'll say to me—but—but I declare I forgot all about your horse.”

“You FORGOT about him?”

“Yes. You see that thing?” pointing pathetically at the auto. “Well, sir, that pesky thing's breakin' my heart—to say nothin' of my back. I got it apart all right, no trouble about that. And by good rights I've got it together again, leastways it looks so. Yet, by time,” in distracted agitation, “there's a half bucket of bolts and nuts and odds and ends that ain't in it yet—left over, you might say. And I can't find any place to put one of 'em. Do you wonder I forget trifles?”

Trifles! the shoeing of Joshua a trifle! The lightkeeper had been suffering for an opportunity to blow off steam, and the opportunity was here. Benijah withered under the blast.

“S-sh-sh! sh-sh!” he pleaded. “Land sakes, Seth Atkins, stop it! I don't blame you for bein' mad, but you nor nobody else sha'n't talk to me that way. I'll fix your horse in five minutes. Yes, sir, in five minutes. Shut up now, or I won't do it at all!”

He rushed over to the stall in the rear of the shop, woke Joshua from the sweet slumber of old age, and led him to the halter beside the forge. The lightkeeper, being out of breath, had nothing further to say at the moment.

“What's the matter with all you lighthouse folks?” asked Benijah, anxious to change the subject. “What's possessed the whole lot of you to come to the village at one time? Whoa, boy, stand still!”

“The whole lot of us?” repeated Seth. “What do you mean?”

“Mean I've seen two of you at least this afternoon. That Bascom woman, housekeeper at the Graham bungalow she is, went past here twice. Fust time she was in one of Snow's livery buggies, Snow's boy drivin' her. Then, about an hour ago, she went by again, but the boy'd gone, and there was another feller pilotin' the team—a stranger, nobody I ever see afore.”

Seth's red face turned pale. “What?” he cried. “Em—Mrs. Bascom ridin' with a stranger! What sort of a stranger?”

“Oh, a feller somewheres between twenty and fifty. Smooth-faced critter with a checked suit and a straw hat. . . . What on earth's the matter with you now?”

For the lightkeeper was shaking from head to foot.

“Did—did—which way was they goin'? Back to the Lights or—or where?”

“No, didn't seem to be goin' to the Lights at all. They went on the other road. Seemed to be headin' for Denboro if they kept on as they started. . . . Seth Atkins, have you turned loony?”

Seth did not answer. With a leap he landed at Joshua's head, unhooked the halter, and ran out of the shop leading the horse. The astonished blacksmith followed as far as the door. Seth was backing the animal into his wagon, which stood beneath the shed. He fastened the traces with trembling fingers.

“What in the world has struck you?” shouted Ellis. “Ain't you goin' to have that shoe fixed? He can't travel that way. Seth! Seth Atkins! . . . By time, he IS crazy!”

Seth did not deny the charge. Climbing into the wagon, he took up the reins.

“Are you sure and sartin' 'twas the Denboro road they took?” he demanded.

“Who took? That feller and the Bascom woman? Course I am, but . . . Well, I swan!”

For the lightkeeper waited to hear no more. He struck the unsuspecting Joshua with the end of the reins and, with a jump, the old horse started forward. Another moment, and the lighthouse wagon was splashing and rattling through the pouring rain along the road leading to Denboro.