So on this basis the deal was finally made. Seth was reluctant to trust the precious Joshua out of his sight, but, after some parley, he agreed to do so. The traces were unfastened, and the animal was led into the shop, the carriage was backed under a shed, and the lightkeeper went away promising to be back in an hour. As soon as he had gone, Ellis dived again into the vitals of the auto.
The argument with the blacksmith had one satisfactory result so far as Seth was concerned. In a measure it afforded a temporary vent for his feelings. He was moderately agreeable during his brief stay at the grocery store, and when his orders were given and he found the hour not half over, he strolled out to walk about the village.
And then, alone once more, all his misery and heartache returned.
He strode along, his head down, scarcely speaking to acquaintances whom he met, until he reached the railway station, where he sat down on the baggage truck to mentally review, over and over again, the scene with Emeline and the dreadful collapse of his newborn hopes and plans.
As he sat there, the door of the station opened and a man emerged, a man evidently not a native of Eastboro. He was dressed in a rather loud, but somewhat shabby, suit of summer plaid, his straw hat was set a trifle over one ear, and he was smoking the stump of a not too fragrant cigar. Altogether he looked like a sporting character under a temporary financial cloud, but the cloud did not dim his self-satisfaction nor shadow his magnificent complaisance. He regarded the section of Eastboro before him with condescending scorn, and then, catching sight of the doleful figure on the baggage truck, strolled over and addressed it.
"I say, my friend," he observed briskly, "have you a match concealed about your person? If so, I--"
He stopped short, for Mr. Atkins, after one languid glance in his direction, had sprung from the truck and was gazing at him as if he was some apparition, some figure in a nightmare, instead of his blase self. And he, as he looked at the lightkeeper's astounded countenance, dropped the cigar stump from his fingers and stepped backward in alarmed consternation.
"You--you--YOU?" gasped Seth.
"YOU!" repeated the stranger.
"You!" cried Seth again; not a brilliant nor original observation, but, under the circumstances, excusable, for the nonchalant person in the plaid suit was Emeline Bascom's brother-in-law, the genius, the "inventor," the one person whom he hated--and feared--more than anyone else in the world--Bennie D. himself.
There was a considerable interval during which neither of the pair spoke. Seth, open-mouthed and horror-stricken, was incapable of speech, and the inventor's astonishment seemed to be coupled with a certain nervousness, almost as if he feared a physical assault.
However, as the lightkeeper made no move, and his fists remained open, the nervousness disappeared, and Bennie D. characteristically took command of the situation.
"Hum!" he observed musingly. "Hum! May I ask what you are doing here?"
"Huh--hey?" was Seth's incoherent reply.
"I ask what you are doing here? Have you followed me?"
"Fol-follered you? No."
"You're sure of that, are you?"
"Yes, I be." Seth did not ask what Bennie D. was doing there.
Already that question was settled in his mind. The brother-in-law had found out that Emeline was living next door to the man she married, that her summer engagement was over, and he had come to take her away.
"Well?" queried the inventor sharply, "if you haven't followed me, what are you doing here? What do you mean by being here?"
"I belong here," desperately. "I work here."
"You do? And may I ask what particular being is fortunate enough to employ you?"
"I'm keeper down to the lighthouses, if you want to know. But I cal'late you know it already."
Bennie D.'s coolness was not proof against this. He started.
"The lighthouses?" he repeated. "The--what is it they call them?-- the Twin-Lights?"
"Yes. You know it; what's the use of askin' fool questions?"
The inventor had not known it--until that moment, and he took time to consider before making another remark. His sister-in-law was employed as housekeeper at some bungalow or other situated in close proximity to the Twin-Lights; that he had discovered since his arrival on the morning train. Prior to that he had known only that she was in Eastboro for the summer. Before that he had not been particularly interested in her location. Since the day, two years past, when, having decided that he had used her and her rapidly depleting supply of cash as long as was safe or convenient, he had unceremoniously left her and gone to New York to live upon money supplied by a credulous city gentleman, whom his smooth tongue had interested in his "inventions," he had not taken the trouble even to write to Emeline. But within the present month the New Yorker's credulity and his "loans" had ceased to be material assets. Then Bennie D., face to face with the need of funds, remembered his sister and the promise given his dead brother that he should be provided with a home as long as she had one.
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.
