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?”