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Queenstown.”
    “Why, that’s close by. How soon are you coming. Tell me quickly.”
    “Tomorrow, if you’d like. I could drive over in the morning if that’s convenient.”
    “Of course it’s convenient! I can’t wait.”
    “I’ll try to leave about nine,” he said. He added his good-byes and then hung up with a genuinely warm feeling.

    In the morning he rose fairly early, had a good breakfast, and then drove to the local police station. Sergeant Woodley was expecting him.
    “I spoke with Mr. Winston this morning,” he said. “I’m to tell you that Inspector Jarvis has issued a report absolving you from any blame for the highway incident.”
    ‘I’m very grateful,” Peter responded. “Is there anything new on the subject? Naturally, I’m interested.”
    “Yes, Mr. Ferguson, but it’s a police matter at the moment. Now—” Woodley turned to a desk behind him and picked up a piece of paper—“I’ve drawn a little map for you.”
    It had been carefully done to show both the highways to be followed to Te Anau and the location of the house within the small community. “If you get lost when you arrive, anyone will be able to show you where the Glovers live. They’re well-known locally-’ Peter accepted the map, spoke his thanks, and got back into his car. Minutes later he was out of Queenstown and on the open road. As he drove through the attractive countryside, he was freshly aware that ever since he had come to New Zealand, something had been hanging over him.
    He remembered several occasions when his identity had seemed to create some kind of undercurrent. He very much hoped that his aunt, when he met her, would be able to clear it up.
    In less than three hours he reached Te Anau, a small community on the shore of a magnificent lake. Two blocks before the water, he found the street he wanted and turned right. He rounded a gentle bend and found a small sign with the right number at last. He turned left up a short driveway and was astonished to find himself on the grounds of an impressive estate. The house was almost a mansion. A little awed, he got out of his car and walked toward the front door.
    Before he was halfway there, it was opened by a remarkably attractive woman. As he approached her, he saw that her face was still virtually unwrinkled. It was a face he almost seemed to recognize, one that was burned in his memory. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Peter Ferguson.”
    “I know,” the woman answered. “I can see it in your face. I’d know you anywhere.”
    He took her offered hands, and electricity flowed into him. “I thought for just a moment—” he began, then stopped when the pressure of her fingers tightened on his.
    “Yes, Harriet and I did look alike. Many people thought we were twins. Come in, Peter, please come in!”
    She led him through a cool, Spanish-tiled lobby into a large living room. Two men who were waiting there rose to greet him. “Peter,” the lady said, “this is my husband Edmund.”
    Peter stepped forward and shook hands.
    “And our very dear friend, Ray O’Malley.”
    It took Peter a few moments to recover from that. He shook hands formally while, figuratively, he got his breath back. “I believe we spoke on the phone,” he said.
    “Yes, we did,” O’Malley confirmed.
    Peter realized that that topic should be dropped immediately: it was neither the time nor the place to pursue it. Instead, he stepped back and looked again at his sumptuous surroundings. ”Until yesterday, I didn’t realize that I had a relative anywhere,” he said. “Then the police told me about you.”
    “God bless them for it,” his hostess said, and indicated a luxurious sofa. As soon as he sat down, she placed herself only a foot or two from him. “I want you to call me Martha,” she began. “Everyone does. I knew I had a nephew; we’ve been trying to find you. Now tell us about yourself.”
    At that moment Peter was much embarrassed by O’Malley’s presence,