and whines ceased and were succeeded by gnawings and crunchings. Brown
returned to the kitchen to inspect his neglected fire.

This time the fire was not out, but it burned slowly. The water in the
wash boiler was only lukewarm. The big lobster in the net balanced
on the chair clashed his claws wickedly as the substitute assistant
approached. The door had been left open, and the room hummed with flies.
Brown shut the door and, while waiting for the water to heat, separated
a dozen sheets of the sticky fly paper and placed them in conspicuous
places. He wondered as he did so what some of his former acquaintances
would say if they could see him. He--HE--a cook, and a roustabout, a
dishwasher and a scrubber of brass at Eastboro Twin-Lights! How long
must he stay there? For months at least. He should be thankful that he
was there; thankful that there was such a place, where no one came and
where he could remain until he was forgotten. He was thankful, of course
he was. But what a life to live!

He wondered what Atkins thought of him; how much the lightkeeper guessed
concerning his identity and his story. He could not guess within miles
of the truth, but he must indulge in some curious speculations. Then he
fell to wondering about Seth himself. What was it that the light-keeper
was hiding from the world? Odd that two people, each possessing a
secret, should come together at that lonely spot. Where was it that Seth
went almost every afternoon? Had these daily absences any connection
with the great mystery?

He distributed the sheets of fly paper about the room, in places where
he judged them likely to do the most good, and had the satisfaction of
seeing a number of the tormenting insects caught immediately. Then
he tested the water in the boiler. It was warmer, even hot, but not