Seth stared at him uncomprehendingly.  “Decoyin’ her?” he repeated.  “I never decoyed her.  I’ve been here ever since I left—­left you and her that night.  I never asked her to come.  I didn’t know she was comin’.  And she didn’t know I was here until—­until a month or so ago.  I—­”

Bennie D. held up a hand.  He was delighted by this piece of news, but he did not show it.

“That will do,” he said.  “I understand all that.  But since then—­since then?  What do you mean by trying to influence her as you have?  Answer me!”

The lightkeeper rubbed his forehead.

“I ain’t tried to influence her,” he declared.  “She and me have scarcely seen each other.  Nobody knows that we was married, not even Miss Graham nor the young feller that’s—­that’s my helper at the lights.  You must know that.  She must have wrote you.  What are you talkin’ about?”

She had not written; he had received no letters from her during the two years, but again the wily “genius” was equal to the occasion.  He looked wise and nodded.

“Of course,” he said importantly.  “Of course.  Certainly.”

He hesitated, not knowing exactly what his next move should be.  And Seth, having had time to collect, in a measure, his scattered wits, began to do some thinking on his own account.

“Say,” he said suddenly, “if you knew all this aforehand, what are you askin’ these questions for?”

“That,” Bennie D.’s gesture was one of lofty disdain, “is my business.”

“I want to know!  Well, then, maybe I’ve got some business of my own.  Who made my business your business?  Hey?”

“The welfare of my sister—­”

“Never you mind your sister.  You’re talkin’ with me now.  And you ain’t got me penned up in a house, neither.  By jiminy crimps!” His anger boiled over, and, to the inventor’s eyes, he began to look alarmingly alive.  “By jiminy crimps!” repeated Seth, “I’ve been prayin’ all these years to meet you somewheres alone, and now I’ve a good mind to—­to—­”

His big fist closed.  Bennie D. stepped backward out of reach.

“Bascom—­” he cried, “don’t—­”

“Don’t you call me that!”

“Bascom—­” The inventor was thoroughly frightened, and his voice rose almost to a shout.

The lightkeeper’s wrath vanished at the sound of the name.  If any native of Eastboro, if the depot master on the other side of the track, should hear him addressed as “Bascom,” the fat would be in the fire for good and all.  The secret he had so jealously guarded would be out, and all the miserable story would, sooner or later, be known.

“Don’t call me Bascom,” he begged.  “Er—­please don’t.”

Bennie D.’s courage returned.  Yet he realized that if a trump card was to be played it must be then.  This man was dangerous, and, somehow or other, his guns must be spiked.  A brilliant idea occurred to him.  Exactly how much of the truth Seth knew he was not sure, but he took the risk.