“I have some packing to do,” she explained; “and, besides, I think it is going to rain.”

“But, Miss Graham, I—­”

A big drop of rain splashing upon his shoe confirmed the weather prophecy.  She began to walk briskly toward the bungalow, and he walked at her side.

“Another storm,” she said.  “I should think the one we have just passed through was sufficient for a while.  I hope Mrs. Bascom won’t get wet.”

“She has gone to the village, hasn’t she?”

“Yes.  She has received some message or other—­I don’t know how it came—­which sent her off in a hurry.  A livery carriage came for her.  She will be back before night.”

“Atkins has gone, too.  He had some errands, I believe.  I can’t make out what has come over him of late.  He has changed greatly.  He used to be so jolly and good-humored, except when female picnickers came.  Now he is as solemn as an owl.  When he went away he scarcely spoke a word.  I thought he seemed to be in trouble, but when I asked him, he shut me up so promptly that I didn’t press the matter.”

“Did he?  That’s odd.  Mrs. Bascom seemed to be in trouble, too.  I thought she had been crying when she came out of her room to go to the carriage.  She denied it, but her eyes looked red.  What can be the matter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nor I. Mr.—­er—­Brooks—­Or shall I still call you ’Brown’?”

“No.  Brown is dead; drowned.  Let him stay so.”

“Very well.  Mr. Brooks, has it occurred to you that your Mr. Atkins is a peculiar character?  That he acts peculiarly?”

“He has acted peculiarly ever since I knew him.  But to what particular peculiarity do you refer?”

“His queer behavior.  Several times I have seen him—­I am almost sure it was he—­hiding or crouching behind the sand hills at the rear of our bungalow.”

“You have?  Why, I—­”

He hesitated.  Before he could go on or she continue, the rain came in a deluge.  They reached the porch just in time.

“Well, I’m safe and reasonably dry,” she panted.  “I’m afraid you will be drenched before you get to the lights.  Don’t you want an umbrella?”

“No.  No, indeed, thank you.”

“Well, you must hurry then.  Good-by.”

“But, Miss Graham,” anxiously, “I shall see you again before you go.  To-morrow, at bathing time, perhaps?”

“Judging by the outlook just at present, bathing will be out of the question to-morrow.”

“But I want to see you.  I must.”

She shook her head doubtfully.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “I shall be very busy getting ready to leave; but perhaps we may meet again.”

“We must.  I—­Miss Graham, I—­”

She had closed the door.  He ran homeward through the rain, the storm which soaked him to the skin being but a trifle compared to the tornado in his breast.

He spent the balance of the day somehow, he could not have told how.  The rain and wind continued; six o’clock came, and Seth should have returned an hour before, but there was no sign of him.  He wondered if Mrs. Bascom had returned.  He had not seen the carriage, but she might have come while he was inside the house.  The lightkeeper’s nonappearance began to worry him a trifle.