The substitute assistant laughed aloud.  “I wasn’t thinking of it,” he said; “but I shall be glad to make the attempt if it would afford you amusement.”

Mrs. Bascom laughed, too.  “I guess you’re better natured than I thought you was,” she observed.  “It might amuse me some, I will admit, but I ain’t got the time.  I came to borrow some butter, if you’ve got any to spare.  Down here we’re as far from supplies as the feller that run the Ark I was mentionin’, old Noah himself.”

Brown took the bowl from her hands and went to the pantry to get the butter.  When he turned again she was standing by the door, one hand hidden beneath her apron.  She took the bowl with the other.

“Much obliged,” she said.  “I’ll fetch this back soon’s the grocery cart comes.  Miss Graham made arrangements to have him drive across every Saturday.  Or, rather, I arranged for it myself.  Her head’s too full of paintin’ and scenery to think of much else.  I tell her you can’t eat an ile paintin’—­unless you’re born a goat.  Good-by.”

She went away.  Brown chuckled and went on with his account of stock.

Seth “turned out” rather early that day.  At half past one he appeared in the kitchen, partially dressed.

“Where in time is my shirt?” he demanded impatiently.

“Your what?”

“My shirt.  I thought I took it off out here.  Could have sworn I did.  Guess likely I didn’t, though.  Must be gettin’ absent-minded.”

He was on his way back to the bedroom when his helper called.

“You did take it off out here,” he cried.  “It was on that chair there.  I remember seeing it.  Probably it has fallen on the floor somewhere.”

Atkins returned, grumbling that the kitchen floor was a “healthy place to heave a shirt.”

“Where is it?” he asked after a hurried search.  “I can’t find it nowheres.  Didn’t put it in the fire, did ye?”

“Of course I didn’t.  I saw it. . . .  Why, I remember that woman’s picking it up when she sat down.”

“Woman?  What woman?”

“That Baskin—­Buskin—­whatever her name is.  The housekeeper at the bungalow.”

“Was she—­here?” Seth’s question was almost a shout.  His helper stared at him.

“Yes,” he answered; “she was.  She came to borrow some butter.”

“To—­to borrow—­butter?”

“Why, yes.  You didn’t think I invited her in for a morning call, did you?  Don’t act as if you had been struck by lightning.  It’s not so very serious.  We’ve got to expect some trouble of that kind.  I got rid of her as soon as I could.”

“You—­you did?”

“Yes, I did.  You should thank me.  I am on duty during the day, and I suppose most of that sort of thing will fall on me.  You’re lucky.  Our neighbors aren’t likely to make many calls after dark. . . .  What’s the matter now?  Why are you looking at me like that?”

Seth walked to the door and leaned against the post.  Brown repeated his question.  “What is the matter?” he asked.  “You act just as you did when I first happened into this forsak—­this place.  If you’ve got any more hideous secrets up your sleeve I’m going to quit.”