“I know it,” she said.
“You DO?”
“Yes. You are 'Russ' Brooks, aren't you?”
Russell Brooks, alias John Brown, dropped his cap again, but did not pick it up. He swallowed hard.
“How on earth did you know that?” he asked as soon as he could say anything.
“Oh, it was simple enough. I didn't really know; I only guessed. You weren't a real lightkeeper, that was plain. And you weren't used to washing dishes or doing housework—that,” with the irrepressible curl of the corners of her lips, “was just as plain. When you told me that fib about meeting my brother here last summer I was sure you had met him somewhere, probably at college. So in my next letter to him I described you as well as I could, mentioned that you were as good or a better swimmer than he, and asked for particulars. He answered that the only fellow he could think of who fitted your description was 'Russ' Brooks—Russell, I suppose—of New York; though what Russ Brooks was doing as lightkeeper's assistant at Eastboro Twin-Lights he DIDN'T know. Neither did I. But then, THAT was not my business.”
The substitute assistant did not answer: he could not, on such short notice.
“So,” continued the girl, “I felt almost as if I had known you for a long time. You and Horace were such good friends at college, and he had often told me of you. I was very glad to meet you in real life, especially here, where I had no one but Mrs. Bascom to talk to; Mr. Atkins, by reason of his aversion to my unfortunate sex, being barred.”
Mr. Brown's—or Mr. Brooks'—next speech harked back to her previous one.
“I'll tell you while I'm here,” he began.