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 longer secrets, what had Seth Atkins to conceal?

Brown thought and guessed and surmised, but guesses and surmises were fruitless.  He finished his dishwashing and began another of the loathed housekeeping tasks, that of rummaging the pantry and seeing what eatables were available for his luncheon and the evening meal.

He spread the various odds and ends on the kitchen table, preparatory to taking account of stock.  A part of a slab of bacon, a salt codfish, some cold clam fritters, a few molasses cookies, and half a loaf of bread.  He had gotten thus far in the inventory when a shadow darkened the doorway.  He turned and saw Mrs. Bascom, the bungalow housekeeper.

“Good mornin’,” said Mrs. Bascom.

Brown answered coldly.  Why on earth was it always his luck to be present when these female nuisances made their appearance?  And why couldn’t they let him alone, just as he had determined to let them alone—­in the future?  Of course he was glad that the caller was not Miss Graham, but this one was bad enough.