ean?" asked Blake, for there seemed to be a strange
meaning in the old man's voice.

"I mean, lad," and the lighthouse keeper's tones sank to a whisper; "I
mean, if I tell you something, can you keep it from him?"

"Why--yes--I suppose so," spoke Blake, wonderingly. "But what is the
matter? Isn't his father here?"

"No, he's gone, just as I told him. But look here--he seems a nice sort
of lad, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. I'd rather tell you, as
long as you're his chum, and if you can keep a secret."

He looked to where Joe was sitting on the rocks, watching the waves roll
lazily up the beach and break. Joe was far enough off so that the
low-voiced conversation could not reach him.

"I can keep a secret if I have to," replied Blake. "But what is it all
about? Is Mr. Duncan--is he--dead?"

The old man hesitated, and, for a moment, Blake thought that his guess
was correct. Then the aged man said slowly:

"No, my boy, he isn't dead; but maybe, for the sake of his son, he had
better be. At any rate, it's better, all around, that he's away from
here."

"Why?" asked Blake quickly. "Tell me what you mean!"

"That I will, lad, and maybe you can figure a way out of the puzzle. I'm
an old man, and not as smart as I was, so my brain doesn't work quickly.
Maybe you can find a way out. Come inside where we can talk so he won't
hear us," and he nodded toward the quiet figure of Joe on the beach.

Blake wondered more than ever what the disclosure might be. He followed
the aged man into the living quarters of the house attached to the light
tower.

"Sit ye there, lad," went on Mr. Stanton, "and I'll tell you all about
it. Maybe you can find a way out."

He paused, as if to gather his thoughts, and then resumed:

"You see I'm pretty old, and I have to have an assistant at this light.
I expect soon I'll have to give up altogether. But I'm going to hang on
as long as I can. I've had three assistants in the last year, and one of
'em, as you know now, was Nathaniel Duncan, Joe's father. Before him I
had a likely young fellow named--ah, well, I've forgotten, and the name
doesn't matter much anyhow. But when he left the board sent me this
Duncan, and I must say I liked him right well."

"What sort of a man was he?" asked Blake.

"A nice sort of man. He was about middle aged, tall, well built, and
strong as a horse. He looked as if he had had trouble, though, and
gradually he told me his story. His wife had died wh