He wandered around the house and lights, gloomy, restless and despondent. Occasionally he glanced at the clock.
It was a beautiful afternoon, just the afternoon for a swim, and he was debarred from swimming, not only that day, but for all the summer days to come. No matter what Seth's new secret might be, it was surely not connected with the female sex, and Brown would be true to the solemn compact between them. He could not bathe in the cove because Miss Graham would be there.
At four o'clock he stood in the shadow of the light tower looking across the cove. As he looked he saw Miss Graham, in bathing attire, emerge from the bungalow and descend the bluff. She did not see him and, to make sure that she might not, he dodged back out of sight. Then he saw something else.
Out on the dunes back of the barn he caught a glimpse of a figure darting to cover behind a clump of bushes. The figure was a familiar one, but what was it doing there? He watched the bushes, but they did not move. Then he entered the house, went upstairs, and cautiously peered from the back attic window.
The bushes remained motionless for some minutes. Then they stirred ever so slightly, and above them appeared the head of Seth Atkins.
Seth seemed to be watching the cove and the lights. For another minute he peered over the bushes, first at the bathing waters below and then at his own dwelling. Brown ground his teeth. The light- keeper was "spying" again, was watching to see if he violated his contract.
But no, that could not be, for now Seth, apparently sure that the coast was clear, emerged from his hiding place and ran in a stooping posture until he reached another clump further off and nearer the end of the cove. He remained there an instant and then ran, still crouching, until he disappeared behind a high dune at the rear of the bungalow. And there he stayed; at least Brown did not see him come out.
What he did see, however, was just as astonishing. The landward door of the bungalow opened, and Mrs. Bascom, the housekeeper, stepped out into the yard. She seemed to be listening and looking.
Apparently she must have heard something, for she moved away for some little distance and stood still. Then, above the edge of the dune, showed Seth's head and arm. He beckoned to her. She walked briskly across the intervening space, turned the ragged, grass-grown corner of the knoll and disappeared, also. Brown, scarcely believing his eyes, waited and watched, but he saw no more. Neither Seth nor the housekeeper came out from behind that dune.
But the substitute assistant had seen enough--quite enough. Seth Atkins, Seth, the woman-hater, the man who had threatened him with all sorts of penalties if he ever so much as looked at a female, was meeting one of the sex himself, meeting her on the sly. What it meant Brown could not imagine. Probably it explained the clay smears on the boots and Seth's discomfiture of the morning; but that was immaterial. The fact, the one essential fact, was this: the compact was broken. Seth had broken it. Brown was relieved of all responsibility. If he wished to swim in that cove, no matter who might be there, he was perfectly free to do it. And he would do it, by George! He had been betrayed, scandalously, meanly betrayed, and it would serve the betrayer right if he paid him in his own coin.
He darted down the attic stairs, ran down the path to the boathouse, hurriedly changed his clothes for his bathing suit, ran along the shore of the creek and plunged in.
Miss Graham waved a hand to him as he shook the water from his eyes.
Over behind the sand dune a more or less interesting interview was taking place. Seth, having made sure that his whistles were heard and his signals seen, sank down in the shadow and awaited developments. They were not long in coming. A firm footstep crunched the sand, and Mrs. Bascom appeared.
"Well," she inquired coldly, "what's the matter now?"
Mr. Atkins waved an agitated hand.
"Set down," he begged. "Scooch down out of sight, Emeline, for the land sakes. Don't stand up there where everybody can see you."
The lady refused to "scooch."
"If I ain't ashamed of bein' seen," she observed, "I don't know why you should be. What are you doin' over here anyhow; skippin' 'round in the sand like a hoptoad?"
The lightkeeper repeated his plea.
"Do set down, Emeline, please," he urged. "I thought you and me'd agreed that nobody'd ought to see us together."
Mrs. Bascom gathered her skirts about her and with great deliberation seated herself upon a hummock.
"We did have some such bargain," she replied. "That's why I can't understand your hidin' at my back door and whistlin' and wavin' like a young one. What did you come here for, anyway?"
Seth answered with righteous indignation.
"I come for my shirt," he declared.
"Your shirt?"
"Yes, my other shirt. I left it in the kitchen this mornin', and that--that helper of mine says you was in the chair along with it."
"Humph! Did he have the impudence to say I took it?"
"No--o. No, course he didn't. But it's gone and--and--"
"What would I want of your shirt? Didn't think I was cal'latin' to wear it, did you?"
"No, but--"
"I should hope not. I ain't a Doctor Mary Walker, or whatever her name is."
"But you did take it, just the same. I'm sartin you did. You must have."
The lady's mouth relaxed, and there was a twinkle in her eye.
"All right, Seth," she said. "Suppose I did; what then?"
"I want it back, that's all."
"You can have it. Now what do you s'pose I took it for?"
"I--I--I don't know."
"You don't know? Humph! Did you think I wanted to keep it as a souveneer of last night's doin's?"
Her companion looked rather foolish. He picked up a handful of sand and sifted it through his fingers.
"No--o," he stammered. "I--I know how partic'lar you are--you used to be about such things, and I thought maybe you didn't like the way that button was sewed on."
He glanced up at her with an embarrassed smile, which broadened as he noticed her expression.
