CHAPTER IX.—THE BULLFROG AND THE POLLYWOG.

“Go back to your boat and remember your place hereafter. Don’t interrupt when I’m speaking to you, sir—in England servants are trained not to answer back.”

Even in the half darkness Billie could see the flush on Edward’s face growing deeper every instant. He seemed to breathe in sharp little gasps and his body trembled as if he had an ague.

“Run,” she said to Clarence, who after one swift glance at Edward had actually turned on his heel and started up the path. But the warning came too late. In an instant Edward had seized him by the collar and was shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he tossed him into the lake.

“You low, contemptible coward,” he said. “Stay there until you apologize.”

Clarence floundered about in the water snorting and coughing, and started to wade ashore.

“I’m in earnest,” said Edward. “Apologize, or you’ll get pitched in again if you try to come out.”

All this time Billie had been standing silently on the bank. She could hardly blame Edward for punishing the cowardly boy who had insulted him, but she wished with all her heart that she had not been the cause of the quarrel.

“It’s just what I get for mixing into other people’s affairs,” she thought. “It all came about because I put it into the two Edwards’ heads to change places. I do wish I hadn’t said so much that night.”

The other Edward strolled out of the boat-house just then with his hands in his pockets. He was dressed in the white duck trousers and blue serge coat his counterpart had just removed.

“You look as if you had been having a quarrel,” he said. “What’s happened?”

“Edward, please give that fellow a good flogging,” called Clarence from the lake where he stood waist-deep in water. “You can do it, I know. I found that out the other day.”

But Edward l’Estrange was in no humor to be bothered.

“You touch me and you go where your cousin did,” he said, feeling equal at that moment to exterminating the line of Paxton-Steeles, root, branch and stock.

“Is that old Clarence out there in the water,” said Edward Paxton chuckling. “By Jove, but that’s funny. You look like ‘the bullfrog on the bank and the pollywog in the pool.’”

Billie laughed outright at this because it was funny—Edward crouched on the bank with a black look on his face, like an angry bullfrog, and pollywog Clarence wading about in the water afraid to come out!

At that moment there was a sound of shouting and laughing and a crowd of boys and girls came running from the piazza into the garden. They were chasing Timothy Peppercorn, who was racing down the path in front of the others. It was only a child’s game they were playing, but there are always some big children ranging anywhere from fifteen to fifty who love to play games, and the biggest child at Mr. Duffy’s party that night was Mr. Duffy himself. He resembled a jolly fat old satyr with a crowd of pretty wood nymphs around him as he ran puffing and blowing through the palm-bordered walks.

It was Nancy, fleetest nymph of them all, who was the first to catch Timothy by the tail of his coat and hold him fast until the others came up, and it was on the bank of the lake she had caught him, not two feet from where Edward l’Estrange was sitting embracing his knees, in moody silence.

Just as the others came up, a row-boat shot from round the boat-house and pulled into shore.

“Is this Marse Duffy’s res-dence?” some one called from the boat.

Edward started. He recognized the voice of Uncle Peter.

“Is that you, Uncle Peter?” he called. “What is it?”

“You’s needed at home, Marse Edward.”

“All right. Pull over to the boat landing. I’ll meet you there. Will you take back the Firefly for me to-night?” he asked Edward Paxton.

“I’ll be glad to,” replied the other.

“You may expect me to-morrow morning,” added Edward l’Estrange in a low voice. “I’ll probably need that hundred dollars more than ever now. Before I go will you promise to take my place in every way until I come back?”

“I promise,” said the English boy.

He had not noticed that Clarence, seeing a chance to escape, had now advanced within hearing distance.

“And tell your blackguard cousin,” continued Edward l’Estrange, “that the apology is only postponed.”

“Edward,” said Billie, running after him as he hastened to the boat-house, “if you want to use the Comet to-night to get home in, you’re welcome to it.”

“Thank you, Billie,” replied the boy, giving her hand a warm grasp. “You don’t mind my not calling you ‘Miss,’ do you?”

“Of course not,” said Billie. “We’re just a boy and girl, anyway. Besides, I called you ‘Edward’ first.”

“Good-bye, again,” he said, and was gone down the steps before she could say a word.

Billie took another path to the house and avoided the crowd.

In the meantime, Edward Paxton, seeing Elinor standing apart from the group of young people, had whispered to her.

“It’s awfully jolly to see you again. I’m not strong on dancing but I’d like one with you, if you don’t mind my bungling.”

Elinor looked at him in amazement.

“You seem to have been rather strong on dancing the first part of the evening,” she said coldly.

“Oh—er, perhaps I was,” answered the boy, suddenly remembering that he could not speak for his actions during the first part of the dance.

“But you will dance with me now,” he went on, “or better still, suppose we sit on the piazza. I have been thinking up the music for that song,” he went on eagerly. “You remember the words you gave me the other night:

    “‘On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake,
        The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail
    And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break,
        As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale.’

“You said you would like to sing it on Lake Worth, and I’ve got the music all ready to put down. If it’s ever published, I’ll dedicate it to you. It goes like this,” he added, humming the air to the song as they moved slowly off toward the house.

“What’s that in the water?” called Nancy, after Uncle Peter had interrupted the game and the merry-makers had paused on the bank of the lake to rest and cool off. Mr. Duffy, mopping his face with his pocket handkerchief, had seated himself on the bench occupied by Billie a few moments before.

“It’s a man,” announced several voices. “It’s a man standing in the water.”

“What are you doing, my friend? Cooling your ankles?” asked Mr. Duffy, politely.

Seeing that he was discovered, the man waded in.

“Why, it’s Clarence,” cried Georgiana Paxton.

“Are you quite mad? What will Grandmamma say?” she added in an awed tone of voice.

“Mr. Duffy,” said Clarence in a voice quivering with rage, “I have been insulted by a boatman on your place. I thought I wouldn’t speak of it at first because I didn’t wish to make a scene, but since you have seen me, I must explain.”

“Dear me, dear me, dear me,” exclaimed Mr. Duffy with great concern. “A boatman on my place? Who could it be? I’m sorry, sir, I’m sure. And what did he do, pray?”

“He was impertinent to a young lady and I reprimanded him, and later when I was standing here talking with her he came up from behind and pushed me off the bank. He rowed off with a man in a boat before I could come out and give him a good flogging.”

“Why, he must mean our Edward,” said Nancy. “He runs the motor-boat and the Comet, too.”

“Edward, of course. He’s a fine boy,” said Mr. Duffy. “He often does work for Mrs. Duffy in the garden. It’s hard to believe he would play such a mean trick on any one. But you’d better come into the house, Mr. Paxton, and get on some dry things.”

“Thanks, I’ll take the motor-boat back to the hotel. My cousins can go with the others. Ask the young Miss Campbell,” he called after them, “if that low fellow didn’t have the impertinence to call her ‘Billie,’ and speak to her as familiarly as if he were her equal?”

“He is her equal,” exclaimed Mary, indignantly.

But of course the others only knew Edward as a very useful and capable boy who worked around the hotel at anything he could find to do. He had even been known to carry luggage, so anxious was he to earn money.

CHAPTER X.—THE SONG OF THE MOTOR.

As the motors passed the station, Billie saw a group of familiar figures standing on the platform. Mrs. Paxton-Steele, as usual, was flourishing her gold-headed cane, this time to point out pieces of luggage to the man and maid-servants who traveled with her. Nearby stood Edward, Clarence and Georgiana. Billie sounded the motor horn several times to attract the attention of the others. Clarence looked over his shoulder and turned around quickly without speaking. Georgiana waved her hand and her handkerchief both at once, and Edward flourished his cap and looked only at Billie, who thought regretfully:

“So, he did get back in time.”

“Strange he didn’t tell me last night he was going away,” observed Elinor.

“I think Edward Paxton is a person of many moods,” said Mary. “He is never the same from one day to the next. I don’t think he is a bit like Edward l’Estrange in character. It’s only his face.”

“They are certainly alike in face,” put in Billie. “I believe their nearest relatives could not tell them apart if they were dressed alike.”

“I could,” exclaimed Elinor with conviction in her tones. “There is such a difference in their expressions. Edward Paxton’s face is so much more spiritual.”

Billie could not help laughing at this, and Elinor was piqued.

“Well, I do think he is much more refined,” she observed. “After all, Billie, it was rather familiar of Edward l’Estrange to call you by your first name.”

“Nonsense,” ejaculated Billie. “He’s as good as I am, and I call him Edward. Besides, haven’t we accepted his hospitality, ‘eaten his bread,’ as Papa says? It was quite right for him to call me Billie if he wanted to.”

The girls were rather surprised at this little tiff between the two friends, who were never known to have had the shadow of a quarrel before. Billie made up her mind that she would tell the girls the truth about the two Edwards that very night, even if it were not her secret. She couldn’t bear these small misunderstandings, though they disturbed the placid waters of their friendship ever so little.

“Why is it no one ever sees Virginia?” asked peacemaker Mary, changing the subject.

“I did see her in the corridor of the hotel not long ago,” replied Nancy, “but when she recognized me she flew down a side hall. Miss Campbell wanted to ask her to luncheon with us and tried to catch her, but she had disappeared.”

“Ever since you saved my life, Billie,” here broke in Timothy, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. I’m almost certain it was Clarence Paxton who yelled ‘sharks,’ that morning. Of course I couldn’t testify in a court about it, because when you are chasing around in deep water you are not apt to examine people’s lineaments. Anyway, it was not his face I recognized, but his laugh. The last time he pitched the ball he gave a jeering laugh, and that was why I kept on swimming farther out. I had a feeling he thought I couldn’t.”

“If it was Clarence, he was punished,” said Nancy. “His Grandmamma beat him well with her stick; for I saw her do it and he saw me see her and I saw that he saw that I saw her——” she finished breathlessly, while the others laughed and clapped their hands.

“Bravo! Bravo!” cried Timothy.

They now entered a road which was not unlike a green tunnel. As a matter of fact, it was a tunnel, only it had been cut through vegetation and not through earth and rock.

“This must be the road to Miami,” observed Billie. “You see it is cut through the jungle. Isn’t it wonderful?”

On each side of them tropical trees had grown in such thick profusion and were so closely interwoven with vines and undergrowth as to form an impenetrable wall.

“This must be a dreadful place to be lost in,” said Timothy seriously. “There are paths that lead through it, they say. But it is said that the people who ventured to find them were lost themselves and never returned.”

“Criminals have hidden there——” Mary began, when the sound of another motor coming up behind at a tremendous rate of speed attracted their attention from the jungle. It was a gray racing car and as it flashed past them, Billie and Nancy exchanged a meaning glance.

The other girls had heard the story of their strange adventure that night at the l’Estranges, but they had half forgotten it already, since it was only a fight after all. However, it had been a very real occurrence to Billie and Nancy. They wondered if the gray car contained a man who thought he had committed a murder; and was that man Ignatius Donahue? Of course, there may have been other Ignatius Donahues in the world, but since that night, they had heard no more from Mr. Campbell’s old friend.

Ten miles down one road and almost as many along another flew the Comet, flashing his red breast gloriously in the sunshine.

In the whir of his smoothly running motor engine they could hear a song of the joy of living.

“He’s singing this morning,” exclaimed Mary ecstatically. “He’s got a little song all his own. Listen!”

They sat silently for a few minutes harkening to the music of the motor machine.

“I know exactly what he’s singing,” said Elinor. “I can distinctly hear him say:

    ‘God’s-in-His-Heaven-all’s-right-with-the-world
    God’s-in-His-Heaven-all’s-right-with-the-world.’”

“I don’t hear him say that,” put in Nancy.

“He seems to me to be singing:

    ‘Begone-dull-care-begone-dull-care-begone-dull-care.’”

“What do you think he’s saying, Mary?” asked Timothy.

“Something entirely different from the others,” replied Mary. “Here’s what his song sounds to me like:

    ‘My-coursers-are-fed-with-the-lightning
    they-drink-of-the-whirlwind’s-stream.’”

“This sounds like a quotation party,” laughed Billie. “It reminds me of Friday afternoon in the rhetoric class. It’s my turn now, I suppose, and I’m afraid I haven’t got the Oriental imagination that will make a motor car know verses from Shelley and Browning. All I can hear the old Comet sing is

    ‘Punch-punch-punch-with-care—
    punch-in-the-presence-of-the-passengere.’”

“You’ve none of you struck it right,” said Timothy. “This is the song of the motor and once you catch it you never hear anything else:

    ‘Ketch  a  nigger  by  the  toe,
    Ketch  a  nigger  by  the  toe.
    When  he  hollers,  let  ’im  go,
    When  he  hollers,  let  ’im  go.’”

“Timothy!” protested the two most poetic souls of the party, Mary and Elinor. But having got that insidious verse in their minds they could not get it out, and for the rest of the journey they heard the motor singing joyfully to himself:

    “Ketch  a  nigger  by  the  toe;
    When  he  hollers,  let  him  go.”

Before them stretched the road like a long white ribbon fading into the blue horizon. But they had left the tangled wildwoods far behind them, and were now passing orange groves hedged in with tall fences of arbor-vitæ or bushes of the roses of Sharon in full bloom, their white blossoms gleaming in the sunshine like a line of new-fallen snow.

“This must be the Duffy grove,” exclaimed Billie. “He told me he had built a board fence as high as the wall of China around his place, because next to his wife, he loved his orange trees.”

It was the Duffy grove, for the rotund gentleman himself could now be seen frantically waving his Panama hat and pointing toward a whitewashed board fence, some twenty feet high, at the top of which branched rafters like the uncovered roof of an enormous building.

“He stretches canvas over it when the weather is cool, and he has stoves all about inside with wood fires to keep the baby oranges from catching cold. Isn’t he a funny man?”

“In other words he has an orange asylum instead of an orphan asylum,” put in Timothy, as they drew up at the gate of the two-acre enclosure wherein Mr. Duffy indulged his taste for an ideal orange grove.

The avenue itself did not enter the enclosure but took its unconsecrated way outside the great white wall. Tall palms, like a row of giant sentinels, seemed to keep guard over the secrets of the grove; but the inquisitive vine of the yellow jasmine had almost reached the top, and innumerable and brilliant flowers grew at its foot. At the end of the avenue was the Duffy lodge.

“Ladies, you must excuse these simple accommodations,” he said as he helped them out of the motor. “Mrs. Duffy and I like to come here and camp out occasionally, but it’s a little too primitive for the old woman. She prefers Palm Beach and society. And she’s right,” he added good-naturedly. “This is a fine place to motor to, but it’s too far from people, and Mrs. Duffy and I like people, don’t we, old lady? Especially young people, eh? I feel like blessing that current that carried you and Timothy against me that day, Miss Billie.”

“We feel like blessing it, too,” said Billie.

“It was a very well-bred and respectable current,” exclaimed Timothy. “It not only saved our lives but it carried us into a moonlight dance and an orange grove.”

Although the lodge was hardly the primitive affair Mr. Duffy had described, being a well-built and comfortable bungalow, it had only three rooms—a large living room, a bedroom and a kitchen.

“Take off your coats and hats, my dears,” exclaimed Mrs. Duffy, “and put on these aprons, because when people eat oranges in a real grove they need protection, and I would not for worlds have you ruin your pretty frocks.”

Thus enveloped in large white aprons, they followed Mr. Duffy, looking like a jolly fat comic opera pastry cook in that costume, to the entrance of the orange grove.

“Jason must have felt like this when he found the Golden Fleece,” whispered Mary, while they stood in a group waiting for Mr. Duffy’s man to unlock the small door in the wall.

As for their jolly host himself, he smiled mysteriously and beckoned them to follow.

CHAPTER XI.—THE ORANGE GROVE.

Imagine rows and rows of orange trees all exactly the same size and each cut in the shape of a beautiful dark green ball. And, as if nature could not be lavish enough with gifts to one of her favorite children, each tree was a bouquet of flowers, ripe fruit and green fruit. Through the polished cool green leaves gleamed the brilliant golden balls, and the clusters of white flowers sent out a fragrance that was sweeter and more delicate than the most delicious perfume ever distilled.

“Perhaps the Garden of Eden was an orange grove,” said Mary, pinching herself to see if this really were a dream.

“Only this fruit is not forbidden, my sweet child,” answered Mrs. Duffy, “and you shall have all you can eat of it this minute. Mr. Duffy, did you tell James to bring the knives?”

“Certainly, my dear. I couldn’t forget them because they are in the pocket of this garment, and I’ve been afraid of sitting on them inadvertently.”

He drew forth a number of sharp steel knives and distributed them among the guests.

“The old woman and I will show you first how to peel the oranges,” he said, “and then just fall to and help yourselves. You can eat all you want and don’t be afraid they will make you sick. They never do. They are very much like rattlesnakes, I think. They won’t strike you unless you are afraid of them.”

After a few trials they learned to reverse the peeling on the orange and draw it down to one end like a handle. The proper way to eat the orange was to bite into it as if it were an apple.

They never knew how many oranges they consumed that day. Most of them lost count after the fourth or fifth. They even lost sight of each other and wandered about in the beautiful grove like a band of greedy sleep walkers.

“I declare,” exclaimed Billie at last, coming out of her absorption long enough to squeeze Mrs. Duffy’s plump waist and smile into her face, “we are just a lot of butchers stabbing fruit to death.”

“I don’t wonder you never stay here for any length of time, Mrs. Duffy,” said Timothy Peppercorn. “The smell of these blossoms and the fruit have hypnotized me already. I can’t remember who I am. I feel that I am rapidly becoming an orange.”

“Or a mock orange, perhaps,” suggested Nancy.

“No, the real thing. I’m a genuine Florida orange, a delicious concoction of juice and pulp——”

“Not much pulp, Timothy, my son,” interrupted Mr. Duffy. “You must lay on a little before you leave Florida. But what about lunch, my dear?”

“Lunch?” gasped Miss Helen Campbell, who had retired to a bench and was leaning back exhausted. “How can you mention the word?”

“Oh, you’ll be ready enough to eat after you shake down a bit,” said Mr. Duffy. “We’ll see the alligators first.”

“But, my dear,” objected Mrs. Duffy, “alligators are such unappetizing creatures. Perhaps Miss Campbell would prefer to lie down and rest while you take the children to see the animals.”

“I feel as if I had been dipped in a shower bath of orange juice,” cried Elinor, joining the others who had gradually assembled under one of the trees.

“Now you see why I keep these pinafores for my guests,” answered Mrs. Duffy. “I wouldn’t have you ruin your pretty frocks for the sake of a few oranges.”

“It was worth it,” ejaculated Billie. “I haven’t a dress I wouldn’t have sacrificed for the opportunity of eating all the oranges I wanted to, right off the trees.”

“I should have hated to give up my pale pink mulle,” observed Nancy regretfully, as if she had already laid that cherished costume on the altar of the goddess of fruits.

After removing their juice-stained pinafores and washing their streaming faces and hands, they repaired to the alligator farm which was another fad of good Mr. Duffy’s. Mrs. Duffy loathed the creatures, however, and she and Miss Campbell took their siesta at the bungalow in the absence of the others.

Billie herself harbored a secret distaste for the animals ever after that, on account of what happened while she was feasting her eyes on their hideous bodies.

The alligator farm in another part of Mr. Duffy’s plantation appeared to have been arranged and devised solely for the comfort and happiness of these creatures, who disported themselves on the banks of a small lake or wallowed about in the shallow water like the great lazy reptiles they were. Immense logs and great boulders had been placed in the lake for their amusement.

“I could easily imagine they would eat Hindoo babies,” said Mary, watching them fearfully through the wire netting which served to screen her from their enormous jaws.

“Jennie is really the only vicious one in the family now,” observed Mr. Duffy, apologetically, pointing to an immense alligator which had stretched its length on a log. Jennie opened her jaws with a humorous grin as if her vicious reputation was an amusing subject to her.

They were still laughing at her when one of the children of the lodge-keeper ran up quite breathlessly.

“Miss Campbell is wanted on the telephone,” she said.

“Me?” cried Billie. “What in the world? There must be some mistake. Who could want to speak to me over the telephone?”

“Best way to find out is to run and see,” replied Mr. Duffy. “If it’s long distance, and it probably is, they may be paying for time, remember.”

Billie hurried after the child and the other Motor Maids followed, being as curious as she to learn who could be telephoning her in this remote region.

“Oh, my dear, I’m afraid the person couldn’t wait, whoever it was,” exclaimed Miss Campbell, meeting her young cousin at the door of the bungalow. “I thought it was for me at first, and I tried to take the message. There was some confusion about it. You know I’m no good over the telephone.”

Billie seized the receiver.

“Hello!” she cried. “This is Billie Campbell.”

An immense distance off, a still, small, and yet strangely familiar voice seemed to be speaking to her out of space:

“Billie-e-e—” it said.

“Who are you?” asked the girl, with a feeling of foreboding which an unexpected call on the long distance telephone always causes.

“It’s Edward—Edward l’Estrange. Listen. I must go away. Something has happened. Make Edward Paxton keep his word. You are the only one who knows about it. Tell Virginia if necessary. But no one else. Everything depends on nobody’s knowing I’m not at Palm Beach. Tell Edward I’ll be back, and he must represent me in every way until I come, as he promised. You understand, don’t you? Every way. You won’t lose faith in me, Billie, will you?”

“No,” she replied, wondering what it all meant.

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” she answered mechanically, feeling that she was in some sort of strange dream.

“Wait,” called the voice that sounded so like and still so unlike Edward’s. “Do you promise?”

“Yes,” replied Billie.

“Good-bye again.”

“Good-bye,” she answered, feeling very much like giving way to a few inexplicable tears.

“Was it Edward?” burst out the bunch of curiosity as soon as Billie had hung up the receiver.

“Yes,” said Billie, groping about in her mind for some explanation which would explain, without telling what Edward had really said.

“Which Edward?” asked Elinor.

“Why, the one we saw this morning. They must be in St. Augustine, now.”

“But what did he want?” demanded all the girls in one voice.

“He wanted to say good-bye.”

“Didn’t he send any messages?” demanded Elinor.

“Just to say good-bye,” replied Billie, flushing a little under the scrutiny of her friends. “He’s going away.”

“Not to come back any more?”

“He’s coming back but not for a while. He really didn’t make any explanations. He just said he was going away.”

Mary and Nora laughed and Elinor was silent.

“I always said he was a queer boy,” observed Mary.

“But why telephone you, child?” observed Miss Campbell, much mystified.

“I can’t imagine,” answered Billie. “He just seemed to have to tell some one that he was going away. That’s all I know. He is queer,” she admitted, laughing.

“Luncheon is served,” announced a respectful colored woman who was in charge of the bungalow at all times.

At one end of the vine-covered piazza a table had been spread with a white cloth, and there the hospitable mistress of the establishment served tea and sandwiches to her guests.

During the ride back home, Billie tried to laugh and talk with the others, and Elinor, too, made a great effort to be gay. But Elinor could not conceal a slight coldness which was creeping into her heart toward her friend, and Billie, somehow, was not happy.

What did Edward l’Estrange mean by going away and shifting all his responsibilities on a strange boy and his poor little sister? And why, oh, why, would he insist on drawing her into his troublesome affairs? She wished with all her heart that he had not been such a nice, interesting boy. Then it would have made no difference if he had chosen to go to China. Only she would have still been disappointed in him, of course. And what had he meant by saying:

“You won’t lose faith in me, Billie?”

It was all very strange and perplexing.

CHAPTER XII.—AN UNWISHED WISH.

“Do you think there would be anything out of the way in our going over to see Virginia, Cousin Helen? She is not working here any longer the housekeeper says, and I suppose we shall find her at home. We could take her for a motor ride and bring her back to luncheon.”

“Certainly, child, if she will come. Ask her brother’s opinion. He ought to know better than any one else. But whatever you do, be sure and be back to lunch or I shall be very uneasy.”

Billie wished to see Virginia very much. She also wished to find Edward, and the plan of the morning she hoped would bring both of these things about. She felt worried, and anxious to disburden her soul of its secret.

Her three friends had noticed at breakfast how quiet Billie was, for her frank and honest face had never been able to conceal any emotion which saddened or brightened it.

“Aren’t you feeling well to-day, dear?” Mary asked, as they hurried down the hotel walk to look for Edward, who they had been told was probably at the boat landing.

“Quite well,” replied Billie.

“Wilhelmina,” said Nancy sternly, “you know something and you won’t tell. Now, get it out of your system right off, or it will be making you ill.”

Elinor said nothing at all. It was impossible for her to explain her feelings just then even to herself. She was hurt with Billie for no good reason, and she was angry and ashamed of herself for permitting this ugly little bitterness to enter her mind.

“Do tell us, Billie,” pleaded Nancy, whose curiosity when with her three intimate friends was insatiable.

“But it isn’t mine to tell,” answered Billie desperately.

“Ha! She admits she has a secret,” cried Nancy dramatically.

“The only way for you to learn this secret,” said Billie, cornered at last by her own confession, “is to find it out for yourselves. I can’t tell because I promised not to. For some reason, which I don’t know any more than you do, it’s very important for the secret to remain a secret, and everything depends on its being kept a secret. That’s all I can tell you, because, except for the actual thing itself, that’s all I know.”

“Heavens, how mysterious!” cried Nancy. “I feel I shall burst in a minute if I don’t find out.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to burst then, you inquisitive child,” laughed Billie, giving her a friendly shake.

It was really something of a relief to talk about it, even in this vague and unsatisfactory manner.

Edward was nowhere to be seen at the boat landing.

“Perhaps he’s in the Firefly,” suggested Mary.

The motor-boat was the last of a row of launches moored to the landing, and as they approached they heard a clear, boyish voice, singing:

    “On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake,
    The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail,
    And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break,
    As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale.”

Nancy and Mary, who were already half down the flight of steps leading to the boats, paused to listen. Billie also lingered on the platform, when suddenly Elinor, who had lagged behind, busy with her own thoughts, ran up to her friend and seized her by the shoulders with a little low cry that was half a laugh and half a sob.

“Billie Campbell,” she whispered, “I know the secret. They’ve changed places. But why did they do it?”

“For fun, at first,” replied Billie. “And now I don’t understand. Something has happened because Edward l’Estrange is not coming back.”

The two girls looked at each other a moment in silence.

“You mean he’s left the other Edward to take his place here?” Elinor whispered.

Billie nodded.

“But that isn’t fair.”

“I’m sure it is,” said Billie stoutly. “Because—because——,” she went on lamely, “he couldn’t do anything that wasn’t fair.”

“But think what it will mean to him,” Elinor persisted. “He will have plenty of money and he can go to school and travel——”

“I know,” said Billie, “but he told me he was coming back and I believe him.”

“And Edward Paxton, what will he be doing? He will have to work for a living.”

“It will do him good.”

“You are not fussing, I trust,” called Mary, who had run back up the steps to look for them.

“No, no, only arguing,” replied Elinor.

Edward Paxton now appeared, his hands in his pockets, whistling the same air he had been singing only a moment before. His eyes met Elinor’s and he stopped in the middle of a bar. This double identity was awfully mixing. He was always forgetting that as engineer of the boat, Firefly, he was not supposed to know about music.

“What are your orders this morning, Miss Campbell?” he asked, with just a suspicion of mockery in his voice.

“Get the Comet, please, Edward,” she said, flushing. “We are going to motor out to see Virginia. Can you go with us?”

“At your service,” replied the boy, smiling broadly.

He really seemed so happy that Billie thought, after all, the news she had to tell him would not be so unwelcome.

“How do you like the life?” she asked him presently, following him to the garage, while the other three girls returned to the hotel for mail, motor veils and a last word to Miss Campbell.

“Wonderful,” he replied with enthusiasm. “If I only had a piano it would be perfect. I have just finished composing a song and I want to try it.”

“You don’t mind the work, then?”

“Not specially. You see I don’t do very much. I’ve got it down to the Firefly and the Comet, and let everything else slide.”

“But——” began Billie with a tone of protest in her voice. “After all,” she thought, “it isn’t any of my business.”

“But what?” he asked.

“I have something to tell you, Edward. What would you say if you really had to work for a living for awhile?”

“Is that what you had to tell me?” he asked smiling. “I should say I would rather study music.”

“But you aren’t studying music,” said Billie. “You’re just lying around making up pretty tunes and neglecting the work you promised to do. I’m afraid you can’t neglect it any longer, Edward. You’ve got to look alive and earn some money.”

Then Billie gave him the message she had received over the long distance telephone.

Edward was too amazed to answer at first. His lips formed the word “scoundrel,” but he seemed to have no voice. At last he burst out indignantly: