Late that evening, when Billie sat resting on the piazza, not caring to join the others who were laughing and talking together, Edward l’Estrange drew up a chair beside her and told her the strange story which had drawn them all into a network of puzzling incidents.

“My father was an Englishman, Billie. His name was Paxton.”

Billie started.

“Then you are——”

“Yes. I am Edward’s first cousin. Our fathers were twins and adored each other as twins usually do. My father did not get on well with his mother because he wanted to be a musician. Edward’s father was more practical and he was her favorite son. But he was dissipated, and once in a fit of wild temper he committed a crime, and when they arrested my father by mistake, his brother let him go to jail.”

“How dreadful! How wicked!” put in Billie.

“Yes, it was pretty bad. But Edward’s father made up for it afterwards by his misfortunes, and at last he committed suicide. But to go on, my father escaped and came to this country. He changed his name and went south where he met my mother and eloped with her, although she was to have been married the next day to Ignatius Donahue. It was wrong, of course, and I can’t defend it except that they were so much in love. They lived very happily until my father got word that they were on the track of him. My mother wanted him to fight it out in the courts, but it would have been a difficult case, because you see he had run away. My father was very delicate and visionary, and I suppose he lacked the spirit to defend himself. At any rate, he would build the house in the pine woods and hide himself, and there he stayed for several months—until we brought him home to die, in fact. Just before the end came, he called me into his room one day and told me that he had in his possession a very valuable letter. He had addressed it to Mr. Donahue but it was not to be delivered unless we were in actual want. As we had plenty of money, it didn’t seem likely then that the letter would ever be sent. Anyhow, when I went to look for it, I couldn’t find it. My father’s mind must have been wandering at the time.

“But that wasn’t the end of our troubles, because after father’s death, mother had a fall and injured her spine so that she has never been able to walk a step since. Then the cotton mills, in which all her money was invested, failed and we lost every cent we had. Mother doesn’t know that, though. Virginia and I have managed to keep it from her, so far.”

“I know,” said Billie. “You were wonderful, both of you. But what was in the letter?”

“It came just before father’s death, while he was still at the little house, and it was a full confession written by his brother. After we got so poor, I wrote to Mr. Donahue, thinking perhaps he might have received this lost letter. I suppose father wanted him to have it because of his devotion to mother, and he has helped us in every sort of way. I think he bought the Firefly just for me to take parties out in. He never came to our house, but he used to run down here on his car for a night or two and consult with me.”

“One more question?” asked Billie. “What was he doing that night in the avenue when he had the fight with the man in the motor car?”

“Well,” said Edward, “you must know that there were people who were trying to get that paper away from us before my grandmother could see it. Clarence’s people they were, a bad lot. I suppose they thought if Clarence inherited his grandmother’s millions, they would all come in for their share.

“That fellow who fought with Mr. Donahue represented himself as coming from my grandmother. But then he tried to play a double game and Mr. Donahue caught on and they fought.”

“Now, a last question, Edward. Where in the world have you been hiding?”

“You see, my grandmother and I made friends immediately. When I took the stick away from her that day, she saw at once I was not Edward Paxton, although that is really my name, and she knew she had found her other grandson. The quarrel we had when I broke her stick later in St. Augustine was all fixed up between us. She enjoyed it immensely. Then she ordered me to lie low somewhere, until she sent for me. She was anxious to see if Edward would really keep his word and get to work. He has, so I suppose she’s well pleased. But she has had a hard life. Her children disappointed her one way or another, and have all died, and her grandchildren didn’t seem to come up to the mark either. She’s just a soured, embittered old woman, but I like her, anyhow, now that we understand each other.”

That night Billie related the strange story to her three intimate friends in their bedroom. Each Motor Maid made her own characteristic observation.

Nancy, standing before the mirror, rolling her curls on her pretty fingers, smiled at her image and remarked:

“Mr. Ignatius Donahue is the most charming, fascinating, delightful man I ever met.”

Elinor, in a long white bath robe, her braids twisted around her small head like a coronet, observed:

“It was really family pride, I suppose, that made Edward l’Estrange’s father keep the letter a secret.”

“Oh, no, Elinor,” cried Mary, seated cross-legged on the bed, while she thoughtfully brushed her fine brown hair, “it was his love for his brother. They say that the love of one twin for another passeth understanding.”

“Whatever it was,” said Billie, lying flat on her back on the bed and gazing up at the ceiling, “a fine American boy and girl, honest and plucky and proud, too, for that matter, have come up, head and shoulders from the whole wretched muddle.”