ning
away.

That forenoon was a dismal one for John Brown. His troublesome
conscience, stirred by Seth's reference to swimming, was again in full
working order. He tried to stifle its reproaches, tried to give his
entire attention to his labors about the lights and in the kitchen, but
the consciousness of guilt was too strong. He felt mean and traitorous,
a Benedict Arnold on a small scale. He had certainly treated Atkins
shabbily; Atkins, the man who trusted him and believed in him, whom he
had loftily reproved for "spying" and then betrayed. Yet, in a way his
treason, so far, had been unavoidable. He had promised--had even OFFERED
to teach the Graham girl the "side stroke." He had not meant to make
such an offer or promise, but Fate had tricked him into it, and he could
not, as a gentleman, back out altogether. He had been compelled to give
her one lesson. But he need not give her another. He need not meet her
again. He would not. He would keep the agreement with Seth and forget
the tenants of the bungalow altogether. Good old Atkins! Good old Seth,
the woman-hater! How true he was to his creed, the creed which he,
Brown, had so lately professed. It was a good creed, too. Women were at
the bottom of all the world's troubles. They deserved to be hated. He
would never, never--

"Well, by George!" he exclaimed aloud.

He was looking once more at the lightkeeper's big leather boots. One of
them was lying on its side, and the upturned sole and heel were thickly
coated with blue clay. He crossed the room, picked up the boots and
examined them. Each was smeared with the clay. He put them down again,
shook his head, wandered over to the rocking-chair and sat down.

Seth had cleaned and greased those boots before he went to bed the day
before; Brown had seen him doing it. He had put them on after supper,
just before going on watch; the substitute assistant had seen him do
that, also. Therefore, the clay must have been acquired sometime during
the evening or night just past. And certainly there was no clay at the
"top of the lighthouse," or anywhere in the neighborhood except at
one spot--the salt marsh at the inner end of the cove. Seth must have
visited that marsh in the nighttime. But why? And, if he had done so,
why did he not mention the fact? And, now that the helper thought of it,
why had he been so agitated at the casual remark concerning wading? What
was he up to? Now that the Daisy M. and story of the wife were no