But Seth, instead of accepting the invitation, stared at him aghast.  Then, turning about, he leaped down the steps, ran to the wagon and climbed in.

“Giddap!” he shouted.  Poor, tired Joshua lifted his clay-daubed hoofs.

“You’re not going back?” cried Gould.  “Hold on, Atkins!  Wait!”

But Seth did not wait.  Already he had turned his horse’s head toward Eastboro, and was driving off.  The lawyer stood still, amazedly looking after him.  Then he went into the house and spent the next quarter of an hour trying to call the Twin-Lights by telephone.  As the northeast wind had finished what the northwest one had begun and the wire was down, his attempt was unsuccessful.  He gave it up after a time and sat down to discuss the astonishing affair with his wife.  He was worried.

But his worriment was as nothing compared to Seth’s.  The lawyer’s reference to the Lights had driven even matrimonial troubles from the Atkins mind.  The lights! the Twin-Lights!  It was long past the time for them to be lit, and there was no one to light them but Brown, a green hand.  Were they lit at all?  If not, heaven knew what might happen or had happened already.

He had thought of this before, of course, had vaguely realized that he was betraying his trust, but then he had not cared.  The Lights, his position as keeper, everything, were side issues compared with the one thing to be done, the getting to Denboro.  He had reached Denboro and found his journey all a mistake; his wife and Bennie D. had not, apparently, visited that village; perhaps had not even started for it.  Therefore, in a measure relieved, he thought of other things.  He was many miles from his post of duty, and now his sole idea was to get back to it.

At ten o’clock Mrs. Hepsibah Deacon, a widow living in a little house in the woods on the top of the hill on the Denboro side of Eastboro Back Harbor, with no neighbors for a mile in either direction, was awakened by shouts under her bedroom window.  Opening that window she thrust forth her head.

“Who is it?” she demanded quaveringly.  “What’s the matter?  Is anything afire?”

From the blackness of the rain and fog emerged a vague shape.

“It’s me, Mrs. Deacon; Seth Atkins, down to the Lights, you know.  I’ve left my horse and carriage in your barn.  Josh—­he’s the horse—­is gone lame and played himself out.  He can’t walk another step.  I’ve unharnessed him and left him in the stall.  He’ll be all right.  I’ve given him some water and hay.  Just let him stay there, if it ain’t too much trouble, and I’ll send for him to-morrer and pay for his keep.  It’s all right, ain’t it?  Much obliged.  Good night.”

Before the frightened widow could ask a question or utter a word he was gone, ploughing down the hill in the direction of the Back Harbor.  When he reached the foot of that hill where the road should have been, he found that it had disappeared.  The tide had risen and covered it.