Billie and Nancy, too frightened to speak or move, were as still as one of the old pine trees which had shielded them from the gaze of the two men. As the whirr of the motor died away in the distance, the girls heaved a deep sigh almost at the same moment, as if they had awakened from a terrible dream.

“Billie have we just seen a man killed?” whispered Nancy, her knees knocking together with fright.

“Yes,” whispered Billie unsteadily.

“What shall we do?”

“Wait and let me think. Must we go and alarm the people in the house or wait for Edward l’Estrange? You wouldn’t dare go over there with me and see if the man is really dead, would you, Nancy?”

“No-o-o,” cried Nancy. “Never, never, never!”

“Why not tell Edward Paxton?”

“Why not?” answered the other, and pressing close together, the frightened girls hurried back to the house as fast as their shaking knees could carry them.

It was gloomy enough in the great dark hall with only one candle sputtering in a bracket on the wall, and they were not reassured when on opening the door they found the living room empty.

“Where on earth are they?” exclaimed Nancy.

“Perhaps they couldn’t stand it in here either, and have gone out doors. Let’s look for them on the piazzas.”

Hand in hand they hastened from the house, looking back fearfully at their fantastic shadows dancing on the walls.

“Thank heavens, I hear them,” said Nancy, pulling Billie toward the low sound of voices at the end of one of the side galleries.

“Don’t you say anything, Nancy. Leave me to manage it. You will be certain to frighten Cousin Helen.”

“Why, there you are,” called Miss Campbell herself, as the two girls approached. “Somebody started a false alarm that the sound of a motor had been heard and we came out hoping it was Edward. I was beginning to get uneasy for fear you had wandered too far.”

“We just walked down the avenue and back.”

“Didn’t you hear the motor?” demanded Mary, who scented something in Billie’s manner.

“Yes, but it was not Edward, evidently. I suppose there are lots of motors around the neighborhood.”

“What did you see? Anything interesting?” asked Elinor. “You both look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“You are pale,” exclaimed Miss Campbell, “or is it the moonlight? And Nancy’s hands are cold as ice. Come in the house, child. You should not be out in this night air. You are trembling. Are you ill?”

“Keep it up, Nancy,” whispered Billie in her ear.

“I feel a little faint,” said Nancy. “Perhaps I’d better go in and sit down a moment.”

Miss Campbell, who was consumed with anxiety if one of her girls had the suspicion of a pain, drew her into the house, made her lie on the sofa and took off her own coat to throw over her.

In the meantime, Billie pulled Edward Paxton’s sleeve and whispered, “Wait, I have something to tell you.”

“What is the matter,” he asked, wonderingly.

“When Nancy and I were in the avenue, an automobile drove up and stopped near us. Two men, who were in it, began fighting. They fought out of the car and on the road and one of them hit the other an awful blow. The man is dead, I’m afraid, because the other man pulled him over into the bushes and left him there. Then he jumped into the motor and rushed away. The dead man is over in the bushes down there now.” She pointed down the avenue. “What do you think we’d better do?”

Billie had been too agitated to realize how strange the story sounded until she put it into words.

“He’s there, I tell you,” she exclaimed impatiently, when Edward made no reply. “You look as if you didn’t believe me.”

“It does sound very much like a curious dream. Why should people be killing each other in this wilderness?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. But it happened just as I told you.”

“You are not playing a joke on me, are you?”

There was nothing in the world which irritated Billie so much as to have her word doubted. Her father had often said that she was absurdly truthful, and as a matter of fact she stuck to the letter of the truth with scrupulous care. She always believed other people, because she expected the truth. And she seldom got anything else. It, therefore, seemed incredible to meet some one who could believe that she would invent a tale just for the sake of excitement.

With a slightly contemptuous spark in her fine gray eyes, she turned to Edward and said,

“If you have any doubts on the subject, you had better come with me and see for yourself.”

“Don’t you—think—we’d better wa-a——” he stammered, and broke off with an embarrassed laugh.

Then it was she realized that Edward was timid. She could hardly call it cowardice because the boy followed her; but from the corner of her eye she could see that it was with reluctant steps.

She felt sorry for him, somehow. Probably his grandmother had taken all the spirit out of him. That is why he permitted his cousin Clarence to ride over him, and his old granny, too.

“Are you certain he was dead?” he whispered.

“No, I’m not certain at all. We ought to hurry,” she continued, “if he isn’t, we might be able to help him.”

Half way down the avenue, she stopped at two tall pine trees standing closely together like a loving pair which had grown up side by side.

“I think it was just here,” she whispered. “We were behind these two trees, Nancy and I, when they began to fight, and it was along this smudged place that he pulled the man’s body and pitched it into that clump of bushes.”

Edward paused and drew in a deep breath. A brave soldier about to go under fire could not have been more resolute than he when he finally doubled his fists and plunged through the bushes followed by Billie. Although the moon was bright, they could not see any signs of an object having been dragged over the ground. The elastic undergrowth had sprung back into place and the body might have lain there forever under the trees and no one the wiser.

“Was this the place?” he whispered, trying to keep Billie from seeing that he was shaking all over.

“Yes,” she answered, parting the branches of the acacias. “It was right in here, I think.”

But there was no sign of any creature, living or dead, in the high grasses.

They searched, growing bolder every moment.

At last, with a sigh of deep relief, Edward said,

“Dead or alive, he’s gone. And still you say it wasn’t a dream?”

Even the most patient and amiable natures have their turning points. Now, Billie, with all her high spirits, was singularly free from outbursts of temper. From her father she had inherited a happy, even disposition, always willing to see the best and overlook the worst. But the young girl was very tired that evening. It had been only a few hours since she had saved Timothy Peppercorn’s life, and that followed by the shock of seeing a man struck down, had unnerved her.

She regretted afterwards the words which came to her lips now, for she was terribly and uncontrollably angry and she hardly knew that it was herself who spoke them.

Perhaps, after all, Billie was at that moment an unconscious instrument of fate, because her impetuous, passionate outburst was the means of changing the lives and destinies of several actors in this little history.

“How dare you accuse me of speaking a falsehood?” she said. “You are a coward and you are glad we didn’t find the man’s body because you are afraid. You haven’t even the spirit or courage to believe the truth. You are afraid of everything and everybody. Afraid of your grandmother and your cousin. You are afraid of me now. You are afraid of being sick; of losing your eyesight. You are afraid of the dark, and you are afraid of the sun. You shut it out with black glasses. You may look like Edward l’Estrange. But you are not really like him. He is brave and strong. He is not afraid to fight to make a living and take care of his sick mother. This afternoon when your cousin told that falsehood about the boats starting wrong, you knew it was a lie, but you were afraid to stand up for what was right. It was your cousin who punched a hole in our boat this afternoon. You know that perfectly well; but you will be afraid to tell him so.

“Just change places with Edward l’Estrange once and let him fight your battles and you will see what courage is.”

Billie stopped. The fire of her anger had burned out almost as soon as it had started. She felt shaken through and through and very tired.

“I wonder if Vesuvius feels like this after one of her eruptions,” she thought, shamefacedly.

But there was no time for any inward reflections just then, for her attack on Edward bore very quick results. Instead of giving fire for fire as a real coward would do with some one smaller and weaker than himself, Edward buried his face in his hands and burst into a perfect tempest of sobs.

“Oh, don’t,” cried Billie, remorsefully. “It was cruel of me to speak in that way. I was very angry, but it’s all over now, and I apologize. I must have hurt you awfully. Of course you’re not a coward.”

“No, no. You are quite right. I am a coward. Every word you said was true. I am afraid of everything: the daylight and the dark and draughts and people. I am even afraid of the only thing I want to do in the world—be a musician; because my grandmother threatens to cut me off with a shilling if I touch the piano. I am afraid of being poor. You were right in saying I was afraid of the truth, because it hurts, and what you said hurt me terribly. I sometimes wonder why I was ever born. I have always been so miserable.”

“You poor boy,” said Billie, all the kindness in her nature rising to the top. “I am so sorry I hurt you. Won’t you forgive me?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm.

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “I’m not angry with you. I wish I could be mad just once. I have always been afraid of scenes.”

“Well, don’t say again you wish you had never been born, because perhaps some day you may be awfully glad you were, and then you would be sorry you had said it. After all, you have an easier time than Edward l’Estrange. Think how hard he has to work, and Virginia, too. If you were to change places——” she began, when the English boy interrupted her.

“Do you think we are very much alike?” he demanded with some excitement in his voice.

“Wonderfully.”

“Why not change places then? Our accents are not so very different. I can run boats and automobiles and Edward l’Estrange can——”

“Can fight your battles,” Billie thought, but she said aloud, “Can take your place for a while?”

“Yes,” went on Edward, warming up to the subject. “I would gladly give him my allowance. I dare say it’s more than he makes now and he could have what I made, too. I don’t want it. All I want is a little freedom.”

“But what about your sister and Clarence? Wouldn’t they find out?”

“Clarence wouldn’t because he has never noticed Edward l’Estrange and doesn’t know anything about the likeness. If it were necessary, we could tell Georgiana. But I would rather not. It will be a secret between us three.”

“And are we to trust you to run the Firefly and take us out in the motor?” asked Billie, doubtfully.

“Won’t you please?” asked the boy so earnestly that Billie smiled.

“It may not be necessary,” she said. “Edward has to be won over first. There he is at last,” she added, looking down the avenue. “We had better hurry back. They will be missing us.”

It was not long before the Firefly party was hastening back to the hotel in the faithful red motor.

“Billie,” whispered Nancy, “what happened? Did you find him? And was it Mr. Ignatius Donahue? And was he dead——”

“No, Nancy dear, the dead man had run away, thank heavens, whichever one he was.”

Nancy gave an hysterical little giggle.

“Then he was alive?”

“What a foolish question, child. You don’t suppose the dead can walk, do you? ‘Dead men rise up never.’”

“Ugh—” shivered Nancy. “Oh, dear, but I’m glad that we didn’t really see a murder. Which did you think struck the blow?”

“How can I tell,” answered Billie. “But I would much rather it would be Ignatius Donahue, if it was our Mr. Donahue, who was struck down. Because the other man ran away.”

Early the next morning just as sunrise flooded the world with a mellow light, Virginia l’Estrange tiptoed from the front door of her house and climbed into the back of an old spring wagon where she sat down composedly in a rocking-chair.

“Git up, Alexander,” said Uncle Peter, who occupied the driver’s seat, and off they started down the avenue.

As they turned into the main road, they noticed a man sitting on the ground holding his head in both hands.

“Stop, Uncle Peter,” ordered the girl. “Are you ill?” she asked.

The man looked up with a dazed expression.

“I—I think I am,” he answered.

“Would you like to ride?”

“You are very kind.”

The man climbed into the wagon, and suddenly grasping his head with a groan, fainted dead away.

“Oh, mercy, what shall we do, Uncle Peter? Take him home?”

“We’ll have to, little Missy. We cyant car’ him to the hotel.”

The long-suffering Alexander once again turned his face toward the house and trotted patiently up the avenue. Perhaps he thought he was not to take his usual early morning trip to Palm Beach. By the time they had reached the end of the avenue, the man opened his eyes.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“This is my home,” said the young girl. “My name is Virginia l’Estrange. You had better stay here until you feel better. You will look after him, won’t you please, Mammy?” she said to the colored woman who had come around the side of the house at the sound of approaching wheels. “This gentleman is ill.”

“Virginia l’Estrange,” repeated the man, getting slowly out of the wagon with the help of the two old colored people. “Virginia,” he said again, presently, stretching himself wearily on the long sofa while the colored woman bound a wet cloth about his forehead.

In the meantime, Virginia, herself, rocking gently back and forth, was again on her way to the hotel.

“I suppose it’s all right, Uncle Peter,” she said. “We couldn’t leave a sick man in the road.”

“Yes, little Missy,” said the colored man, “an’ they ain’t nothin’ in our house wuth takin’ anyhow ceppen it be the gran’ pianner.”