“Home?”
“Yes, home—back to the bungalow.”
“You was?”
“Yes.”
A pause. Then: “Emeline, there's no use your tellin' me what ain't so. I know more than you think I do, maybe. If you was drivin' home why did you take the Denboro road?”
“The Denboro road? Why, we only went on that a ways. Then we turned off on what we thought was the road to the Lights. But it wa'n't; it must have been the other, the one that goes along by the edge of the Back Harbor and the Slough, the one that's hardly ever used. Seth,” indignantly, “what do you mean by sayin' that I told you what wa'n't so? Do you think I lie?”
“No. No more than you thought I lied about that Christy critter.”
“Seth, I was always sorry for that. I knew you didn't lie. At least I ought to have known you didn't. I—”
“Wait. What did you take the Denboro road at all for?”
“Why—why—Well, Seth, I'll tell you. Bennie wanted to talk to me. He had come on purpose to see me, and he wanted me to do somethin' that—that . . . Anyhow, he'd come to see me. I didn't know he was comin'. I hadn't heard from him for two years. That letter I got this—yesterday mornin' was from him, and it most knocked me over.”