He stared up into utter blackness.

"Val!"

"Here, Ricky!" But that thin thread of a whisper surely didn't belong to him. He tried again and achieved a sort of croak. Something moved behind him and there was an answering rattle of falling clods.

"Val, I'm afraid to move," her voice wavered unsteadily. "It seems to be falling yet. Where are you?"

The boy tried to investigate, only to find himself more securely fastened than if he had been scientifically bound. And now that the mists had cleared from him, his spine and back felt a sharp pain to which he was no stranger. From his breast-bone down he was held as if in a vise.

"Are you hurt, Ricky?" He formed the words slowly. Every breath he drew thrust a red-hot knife between his ribs. He turned his head toward her, pillowing his cheek on the gritty clay.

"No. But where are you, Val? Can't you come to me?"

"Sorry. Un—unavoidably detained," he gasped. "Don't try any crawling or the rest may come down on us."

"Val! What's the matter? Are you hurt?" Her questions cut sharply through the darkness.

"Banged up a little. No"—he heard the rustle which betrayed her movements—"don't try to come to me—Please, Ricky!"

But with infinite caution she came, until her brother felt the edge of her cape against his face. Then her questing hand touched his throat and slid downward to his shoulders.

"Val!" He knew what horror colored that cry as she came upon what imprisoned him.

"It's all right, Ricky. I'm just pinned in. If I don't try to move I'm safe." Quickly he tried to reassure her.

"Val, don't lie to me now—you're hurt!"

"It's not bad, really, Ricky—"

"Oh!" There was a single small cry and a moment of utter silence and then a hurried rustling.

"Here." Her hand groped for his head. "I've wadded up my cape. Can I slip it under your head?"

"Better not try just yet. Anything might send off the landslide again. Just—just give me a minute or two to—to sort of catch my breath." Catch his breath, when every sobbing gasp he drew was a stab!

"Can't we—can't I lift some of the stuff off?" she asked.

"No. Too risky."

"But—but we can't stay here—" Her voice trailed off and it was then that she must have realized for the first time just what had happened to them.

"I'm afraid we'll have to, Ricky," said her brother quietly.

"But, Val—Val, what if—if—"

"If we aren't found?" he put her fear into words. "But we will be. Rupert is doubtless moving a large amount of earth right now to accomplish that."

"Rupert doesn't know where we are." She had regained control of both voice and spirit. "We—we may never be found, Val."

"I was a fool," he stated plainly a fact which he now knew to be only too true.

"I would have come even if you hadn't, Val," she answered generously and untruthfully. It was perhaps the kindest thing she had ever said.

Now that the noise of the catastrophe had died away they could hear again the drip of water. And that sound tortured Val's dry throat. A glass of cool water—He turned his head restlessly.

"If we only had a light," came Ricky's wish.

"The flash is probably buried."

"Val, will—will it be fun?"

"What?" he demanded, suddenly alert at her tone. Had the dark and their trouble made her light-headed?

"Being a ghost. We—we could walk the hall with Great-uncle Rick; he wouldn't begrudge us that."

"Ricky! Stop it!"

Her answering laugh, though shaky, was sane enough.

"I do pick the wrong times to display my sense of humor, don't I? Val, is it so very bad?"

Something within him crumbled at that question.

"Not so good, Lady," he replied in spite of the resolutions he had made.

She brushed back the hair glued by perspiration to his forehead. Ricky was not gold, he thought, for gold is a rather dirty thing. But she was all steel, as clean and shining as a blade fresh from the hands of a master armorer. He made a great effort and found that he could move his right arm an inch or two. Concentrating all his strength there, he wriggled it back and forth until he could draw it free from the wreckage. But his left shoulder and side were numb save for the pain which came and went.

"Got my arm free," Val told her exultantly and reached up to feel for her in the dark. His fingers closed upon coarse cloth. He pulled feebly and something rolled toward him.

"What's this?"

Ricky's hands slid along his arm to the thing he had found. He could hear her exploring movements.

"It's some sort of a bundle. I wonder where it came from."

"Some more remains of the jolly pirate days, I suppose."

"Here's something else. A bag, I think. Ugh! It smells nasty! There's a hole in it—Oh, here's a piece of money. At least it feels like money. There's more in the bag." She pressed a disk about as large as a half-dollar into Val's palm.

"Pirate loot—" he began. Anything that would keep them from thinking of where they were and what had happened was to be welcomed.

"Val"—he could hear her move uneasily—"remember that old saying: 'Pieces of eight—Ralestones' fate?"

"All good families have curses," he reminded her.

"And good families can have—can have accidents, too."

There could be no answer to that. Nor did Val feel like answering. The savage pain in his legs and back had given way to a kind of numbness. A chill not caused by the dank air crawled up his body. What—what if his injuries were worse than he had thought? What if—if—

The dripping of the water seemed louder, and it no longer fell with the same rhythm. Ricky must be counting money from the bag. He could hear the clink of metal against stone as she dropped a piece.

"Don't lose it," he muttered foggily.

"Lose what?"

"Your pieces of eight."

"What do you mean?"

"You just dropped a piece."

"I haven't touched—Val, do—do you feel worse?"

But he had no thought now for his body. If Ricky had not dropped the money, then what had caused the clink? He ground his cheek against the clay. Thud, thud, clink, thud. That was not water dripping nor coin rattling. That was the sound of digging. And digging meant—

"Ricky! They're digging! I can hear them!"

Her fingers closed about his free hand until the nails dug into the flesh. "Where?"

"I don't know. Listen!"

The sound had grown in strength until now, though muffled, it sounded through that part of the passage still remaining open.

"It comes from this end. From behind that wall. But why should it come from there?"

"Does it matter? Val, do you suppose they could hear me if I pounded on the wall at this side?"

"You haven't anything heavy enough to pound with."

"Yes, I have. This package thing that you found. It's quite heavy. Val, we've got to let them know we're here!"

She crawled away, moving with caution lest she bring on another slide. That reassuring thud, thud still sounded. Then, after long minutes, Val heard the answering blow from their side. Three times Ricky struck before the rhythm of the digging was broken. Then there was silence followed by three sharp blows. They had heard!

Ricky beat a perfect tattoo in joy and was quickly answered. Then the thud, thud began again, but this time the pace was quickened.

"They've heard! They're coming!" Ricky's voice shrilled until it became a scream. "Val, we're found!"

A clod was loosened somewhere above them and crashed upon the wreckage. Would the efforts of their rescuers bring on another slide?

"Be quiet, Ricky," Val croaked a warning, "it's still moving."

Then there came the sharp clink of metal against stone. "Val," called Ricky, "they're right against the wall now!"

"Come back here, away from it. We—we don't want you caught, too," he answered her.

Obediently she crawled back to him and again he felt her hand close about his. The sound of metal grating against stubborn brick filled their pocket of safety. But as an ominous accompaniment came the soft hiss of earth sliding onto the wreckage. Which would win to them first, the rescuers or the second slide?

There was a vicious grinding noise from the walled end of the passage. A moment later a blinding ray of light swung in, to focus upon them.

"Ricky! Val!"

Val was blinking stupidly at the light, but Ricky had presence of mind enough to answer.

"Here we are!"

"Look out," Val roused enough to warn, "the walls are unsafe!"

"We're coming through," rang the answer out of the dark. "Stand away!"

Now that they could see, Val realized for the first time the danger of their position. A jagged, water-rotted beam half covered with clay and sand lay across him, and beyond that was a mass of splintered wood and wet earth. A little sick, he looked up at Ricky. She was staring at the wreckage. Her eyes were black in a white, mud-smeared face.

"Val—Val!" His name came as the thinnest of whispers.

"It isn't as bad as it looks," he said hurriedly. "Something underneath must be supporting most of the weight or—or I wouldn't be here at all."

"Val," she repeated, and then, paying no heed to his frantic injunctions to keep away, she dug at earth and rotten wood with her hands. Using the long bundle clumsily wrapped in stained canvas, she levered a piece of beam out of the way so that she might get down on her knees and scoop up the sand and clay.

"Ricky! Val!" The light swung ahead as someone scrambled through the hole in the barrier wall. Then, when the ray held firm upon them, the headlong rush was checked for a long instant. "Val!"

"Get her—away," he begged. "Another—slip—"

But before he had done, a long arm gathered Ricky up as if she had been a child. "Right," came the firm answer. "Sam, take Miss 'Chanda back. Then—"

Val was watching the reflection of the flash on the broken roof above him. Sand slid in tiny streams down the wall, mingling with the greenish trickles of water. There were queer blue and green arcs painted on the brick which had something to do with the hot pain behind his eyes. The blue turned to orange—to scarlet—

"Careful! Right here in the hall, Holmes—"

The broken earth above him had somehow been changed to a high ceiling, the chill darkness to blazing light and warmth.

"Ricky?" he asked.

"Here, Val." Her face was very close to his.

"You—are—all—right?"

"'Course!" But she was crying. "Don't try to talk, Val. You must be quiet."

He heard someone moving toward them but he kept his eyes on Ricky's face. "We did it!"

"Yes," she answered slowly, "we did it."

"Val, don't try to talk." Rupert's face showed above Ricky's hunched shoulder. There was an odd, strained look about his mouth, a smear of mud across his cheek. But the harsh tone of his voice struck his brother as dumb as if he had slapped him.

"Sorry," Val shaped the words stiffly, "all my fault."

"Nothing's your fault," Ricky's indignant answer cut in. "But—but just be quiet, Val, until the doctor comes."

He turned his head slowly. On the hearth-stone stood Charity talking quietly to Holmes. Just within the circle of the firelight lay a bundle which he had seen before. But of course, that was the thing they had found in the passage, which Ricky had used to pound out their answer to Rupert.

"Ricky—" Val always believed that it was some instinct out of the past which forced that whisper out of him—"Ricky, open that package."

"Why—" she began, but then she got to her feet and went to the bundle, twisting the tarred rope that fastened it in a vain attempt to undo the intricate knots. It was Holmes who produced a knife and sawed through the tough cord. And it was Holmes who unrolled the strips of canvas, oil-silk, and greasy skins. But it was Ricky who took up what lay within and held it out so that it reflected both red firelight and golden room light.

Her brother's sigh was one of satisfaction.

For Ricky held aloft by its ponderous hilt a great war sword. There could be no doubt in any of them—the Luck of Lorne had returned.



"We found it!" breathed Ricky.

"Put it in its place," Val ordered.

Without a word, Rupert drew out a chair and scrambled up. Taking from Ricky's hands the ancient weapon, he slipped it into the niche their pirate ancestor had made for it. In spite of the years underground, the metal of hilt and blade was clear. Seven hundred years of history—their Luck!

"Everything will come right again," Val repeated as Ricky came back to him. "You'll see. Everything—will—be—all—right."

His eyes closed in spite of his efforts. He was back in the darkness where he could only feel the warmth of Ricky's hands clasped about his.



CHAPTER XVI

RALESTONES STAND TOGETHER

"I like Louisiana," drawled Holmes lazily from his perch on the window-seat. "The most improbable things happen here. One finds secret passages under houses and medieval war swords stuck in drains. Then there are 'things that go boomp in the night,' too. It might be worth settling down here—"

"Not for you," cut in Charity briskly. "Too far from the bright lights for you, my man."

"Just for that," he triumphed, "I shall not return this lost property found under a cushion of the couch in the hall."

At the sight of that familiar black note-book, Val shifted uneasily on his pillows. Rupert got up.

"Tired, old man?" he asked and reached to straighten one of his brother's feather-stuffed supports.

Val shook his head. Being bandaged like a mummy was wearying, but one had to humor two broken ribs and a fractured collar-bone.

"Sometimes," replied Charity, "you are just too clever, Mr. Judson Holmes. That does not happen to be my property."

"No?" He flipped it open and held it up so that she might see what lay within. "I'll admit that it isn't your usual sort of stuff, but—"

She was staring at the drawings. "No, that isn't mine. But who—"

Ricky got up from the end of Val's cot and went to look. Then she turned, her eyes shining with excitement. "You're trying them again! But, Val, you said you never would."

"Give me that book!" he ordered grimly. But Rupert had calmly collected the trophy and was turning over the pages one by one. Val made a horrible face at Ricky and resigned himself to the inevitable.

"How long have you been doing this sort of thing?" his brother asked as he turned the last page.

"Ever so long," Ricky answered for Val brightly. "He used to draw whole letters of them when we were at school. There were two sets, one for good days and the other for bad."

"And now," Val cut in, "suppose we just forget the whole matter. Will you please let me have that!"

"Rupert, don't let him go all modest on us now," urged the demon sister. "One retiring violet in the family is enough."

"And who is the violet? Your charming self?" inquired Holmes.

"No." Ricky smiled pleasantly. "Only Mr. Creighton might be interested in the contents of Bluebeard's Chamber. What do you think, Rupert?"

At that audacious hint, Val remembered the night of the storm and Ricky's strange attitude then.

"So Rupert's the missing author," he commented lightly. "Well, well, well."

Charity's indulgent smile faded, and Holmes, suddenly alert, leaned forward. Rupert stared at Val for a long moment, his face blank. Was he going to retire behind his wall of reserve from which their venture underground had routed him? Or was he going to remain the very human person who had spent eight hours of every day at his brother's beck and call for the past few weeks?

"Regular Charlie Chan, aren't you?" he asked mildly.

Val's sigh of relief was echoed by Ricky. "Thanks—so much," Val replied humbly in the well-known manner of the famous detective Rupert had likened him to.

"Then we are right?" asked Ricky.

Rupert's eyebrows slid upward. "You seemed too sure to be in doubt," he commented.

"Well, I was sure at times. But then no one can ever be really sure of anything about you," she admitted frankly.

"But why—" protested Charity.

"Why didn't I spread the glad tidings that I was turning out the great American novel?" he asked. "I don't know. Perhaps I am a violet—no?" He looked pained at Ricky's snort of dissent. "Or perhaps I just don't like to talk about things which may never come true. When I didn't hear from Lever, I thought that my worst forebodings were realized and that my scribbling was worthless. But you know," he paused to fill his pipe, "writing is more or less like the drug habit. I've told stories all my life, and I found myself tied to my typewriter in spite of my disappointment. As for talking about it—well, how much has Val ever said about these?" He ruffled the pages of the note-book provokingly.

"Nothing. And you would never have seen those if I could have prevented it," his brother replied. "Those are for my private satisfaction only."

"Two geniuses in one family." Ricky rolled her eyes heavenward. "This is almost too, too much!"

"Jeems," Val ordered, "you're the nearest. Can't you make her shut up?"

"Just let him try," said his sister sweetly. The swamper grinned but made no move to stir from his chair.

Jeems had become as much a part of Pirate's Haven as the Luck, which Val could see from his cot glimmering dully in its niche in the Long Hall. The swamper's confinement in the sick-room had paled his heavy tan and he had lost the sullen frown which had made him appear so old and bitter. Now, dressed in a pair of Val's white slacks and a shirt from his wardrobe, Jeems was as much at ease in his surroundings as Rupert or Holmes.

It had been Jeems who had saved Ricky and Val on that night of terror when they had been trapped in the secret ways of their pirate ancestors. Sam Two had trailed Ricky to the garden and had witnessed their entering the tunnel. But his racial fear of the dark unknown had kept him from venturing in after them. So he had lingered there long enough to see the invaders come out and take to the river. Catching some words of theirs about a cave-in, he had gone pelting off to Rupert with the story.

The investigating party from the levee had discovered, to their horror, the passage choked for half its length. They were making a futile and dangerous attempt to clear it when Jeems appeared on the scene. Letty-Lou having given him a garbled account of events, he had staggered from his bed in an effort to reach Rupert. He alone knew the underground ways as well as he knew the garden. And so once getting Rupert's attention, he had set them to work in the cellar cutting through to the one passage which paralleled the foundation walls.

In the weeks which followed their emergence from the threatened tomb, the swamper had unobtrusively slipped into a place in the household. While Val was frightening his family by indulging in a bout of fever to complicate his injuries, Jeems was proving himself a tower of strength and a person to be relied upon. Even Lucy had once asked his opinion on the importance of a fire in the hall, and with that his position was assured.

Of the invaders they had heard or seen no more, although the police had visited Pirate's Haven on two separate occasions, interviewing each and every member of the household. They had also made a half-hearted attempt to search the swamp. But for all the evidence they found, Ricky and Val might have been merely indulging in an over-vivid dream. Save that the Luck hung again in the Long Hall.

"Seriously, though," Holmes drew Val's thoughts out of the past, "these are worth-while. Would you mind if I showed them to a friend of mine who might be interested?"

Since Rupert had already nodded and Charity had handed him the note-book, Val decided that he could hardly raise a protest.

"Rupert," Charity glanced at him, "are you going to see Creighton?"

"Since all has been discovered," he misquoted, "I suppose that that is all there is left for me to do."

"Then you had better do it today; he's planning to leave for the North tonight," she informed him.

Rupert came to life. For all his pose of unconcern, he was excited. In the long days Val had been tied to the cot hurriedly set up in a corner of the drawing-room on the night of the rescue—it had been thought wiser to move him no farther than necessary—he had found again the real Rupert they had known of old. There was little he could conceal from his younger brother now—or so Val thought.

"Sam has the roadster," Rupert said. "There's something wrong with the brakes and I told him to take it to town and have it looked over. Goodness only knows what time he'll be back."

"See here, Ralestone," Holmes looked at his wrist-watch, "I've the car I hired here with me. Let me drive you in. Charity has to go, anyway, and see about sending off those sketches of hers."

"Oh, but we were going together," protested Ricky. "I have some shopping to do."

"Very simple," Val suggested. "Why don't you all go?"

"But that would leave you alone." Rupert shook his head.

"No. There's Jeems."

"I don't know," Rupert hesitated doubtfully.

"It doesn't require more than one person to wait on me at present," Val said firmly. "Now all of you go. But remember, I shall expect the Greeks to return bearing gifts."

Holmes saluted. "Right you are, my hearty. Well, ladies, the chariot awaits without."

In spite of their protests, Val at last got rid of them. Since he had a project of his own, he was only too glad to see the last of his oversolicitous family for awhile.

Val had never been able to understand why broken ribs or a fractured collar-bone should chain one to the bed. And since he had recovered from his wrenched back he was eager to be up and around. In private, with the protesting assistance of Sam Two, he had made a pilgrimage across the room and back. And now it was his full intention to be seated on the terrace when the family came home.

It was Lucy of all people who aided fortune to give him his opportunity.

"Mistuh Val," she announced from the doorway as the sound of the car pulling out of the drive signaled the departure of the city-bound party, "dem lights is out agin."

"Another fuse gone? That's the second this week. Who's been playing games?" he asked.

"Dis heah no-'count!" She dragged out of hiding from behind her voluminous skirts her second son, a chocolate-brown infant who rejoiced in the name of Gustavus Adolphus and was generally called "Doff." At that moment he was sobbing noisily and eyeing Val as if the boy were the Grand High Executioner of Tartary. "Yo'all tell Mistuh Val whats yo' bin a-doin'!" commanded his mother, emphasizing her order with a shake.

"Ain't done nothin'," wailed Doff. "Sam, he give me de penny an' say, 'Le's hab fun.' Den Ah puts de penny in de lil' hole an' den Mammy cotch me."

"Doff seems to be the victim, Lucy," Val observed. "Where's Sam?"

"Ah don' know. But I'se a-goin' to fin' out!" she stated with ominous determination. "How's Ah a-goin' to git mah ironin' done when dere ain't no heat fo' de iron? Ah asks yo' dat!"

"There are some fuses in the pantry and Jeems will put one in for you," Val promised.

With a sniff Lucy withdrew, her fingers still hooked in the collar of her tearful son. Jeems glanced at Val as he went by the boy's cot. And Val didn't care for what he read into that glance. Had the swamper by any foul chance come to suspect Val's little plan?

But it all turned out just as he had hoped. Val made that most momentous trip in four easy stages, resting on the big chair where Rupert had spent so many hours, on the bench by the window, in the first of the deck-chairs by the side of the French doors leading to the terrace, and then he reached the haven of the last deck-chair and settled down just where he had intended. And when Jeems returned there was nothing he could do but accept the fact that Val had fled the cot.

"Miss Ricky won't like this," he prophesied darkly. "Nor Mr. Rupert neither. Yo' wouldn't've tried it if they'd been heah."

"Oh, stop worrying. If you'd been tied to that cot the way I've been, you'd be glad to get out here, too. It's great!"

The sun was warm but the afternoon shadow of an oak overhung his seat so that Val escaped the direct force of the rays. A few feet away Satan sprawled full length, giving a fine imitation of a cat that had rid himself of all nine lives, or at least of eight and a half.

Never had the garden shown so rich a green. Ricky's care had sharpened the lines of the flower-beds and had set shrubs in their proper places. And the plants had repaid her with a riot of blossoms. A breeze set the gray moss to swaying from the branches of the oak. And a green grasshopper crossed the terrace in four great leaps, almost scraping Satan's ear in a fashion which might easily have been fatal to the insect. Val sighed and slipped down lower in his chair. "It's great," he murmured again.

"Sure is," Jeems echoed. He dropped down cross-legged beside Val, disdaining the other chair.

Satan stretched without opening his eyes and yawned, gaping to the fullest extent of his jaws and curling his tongue upward so that it seemed pointed like a snake's. Then he rolled over on his other side and curled up with his paws under his chin. A bumblebee blundered by Val's head on its way to visit the morning-glories. He suddenly discovered it difficult to keep his eyes open.

"Someone's comin'," observed Jeems. "Ah just heard a car turn in from the road."

"But the folks have been gone such a short time," Val protested.

However, the car which came almost noiselessly down the drive was not the one in which the family had departed. It had the shape of a sleek gray beetle, rounded so that it was difficult to tell at first glance the hood from the rear. It glided to a stop before the steps and after a moment four passengers disembarked.

Val simply stared, but Jeems got to his feet in one swift movement.

For, coming purposefully up the terrace steps, were four men they had seen before and had very good cause to remember for the rest of their lives.

In the lead strutted the rival, a tight smile rendering his unlovely features yet more disagreeable. Behind him trotted the red-faced counselor who had accompanied him on his first visit. But matching the rival step for step was the "Boss," while "Red" brought up the rear in a tidy fashion.

"Swell place, ain't it?" demanded the rival, taking no notice of Val or Jeems. "Make yourselves to home, boys; the place is yours."

Val gripped the arm of his chair. Sam, Rupert, Holmes—they were all beyond call. It was left to him to meet this unbelievable invasion alone. There was a stir beside him. Val glanced up to meet the slightest of reassuring nods from the swamper. Jeems was with him.

"Whatcha gonna do with the joint, Brick?" asked Red, tossing his cigarette down on the flagstones and grinding it to powder with his heel.

"I dunno yet." The rival strode importantly toward the front door.

"You might tell us when you find out," Val suggested quietly.

With an exaggerated start of surprise the rival turned toward the boy.

"Oh, so it's you, kid?"

"Perhaps," Val said softly, "you had better introduce your friends. After all, I like to know the names of my guests."

The Boss smiled sardonically and Red grinned. Only the red-faced lawyer shuffled his feet uneasily and looked from one to another of his companions with an expression of pleading. But the rival came directly to the point.

"Where's that high and mighty brother of yours?" he demanded.

"Mr. Ralestone will doubtless be very glad to see you," Val evaded, having no desire for the visitors to discover just how slender his resources were. "Jeems, you might go and tell him that we have visitors. Go through the Long Hall, it's nearer that way." He dug the fingernails of his sound hand into the soft wood of the chair arm. Could Jeems interpret that hint? Someone must remove and hide the Luck before these men saw it.

"Right." The swamper turned on his heel and padded toward the French windows.

"No, you don't!" the rival snarled as he moved into line between Jeems and his objective. "When we want that guy, we'll hunt him out ourselves. When we're good and ready!"

"If you don't wish to see my brother, just why did you come?" Val asked feverishly. He must keep them talking there until he had time to think of some way of getting that slender blade of steel into hiding.

"We're movin' in," Red answered casually for them all.

"How interesting. I think that the police will enjoy hearing that," Val commented.

"It's perfectly legal," bleated the lawyer. "We possess a court order to view the place with the purpose of appraising it for sale." He drew a stiff paper from the inside pocket of his coat and waved it toward the boy.

"Bunk! I don't know much about the law but I do know that you could have obtained nothing of the kind without our being notified. And just which one of you has been selected to do the appraising?"

"Him," answered Red laconically and jerked his thumb at the Boss.

"So," Jeems stared at him, "since yo' couldn't git what yo' want by thievin' at night, yo're goin' to try and git it by day."

"But what are you really after? I'm curious to know. You certainly don't want a sugar plantation which hasn't been paying its way since the Civil War. That just isn't reasonable. And you ought to know that we can't afford to buy you off. We must be living over a gold-mine that we haven't discovered. Come on, tell us where it is," Val prodded.

"Cut the cackle," advised Red, "an' le's git down to it."

"I would advise you to get back in your car and drive out." Val wondered if his face looked as stiff as it felt. "This visit isn't going to get you anywhere."

"We ain't goin' any place, kid," remarked the rival. "You don't seem to understand. We're stayin' right here. I got rights and the judge has recognized them. I'm top guy here now."

"Yeah. Yuh ain't so smart as yuh think yuh are," contributed Red, scowling at Val. "We ain't gonna leave."

It wasn't Red's speech, however, that straightened the boy's back and made Jeems shift his position an inch or two. There was another car coming up the drive. And since their enemies were all gathered before them, they could only be receiving friends, or at the worst neutrals.

But the car which came from between the live-oaks to park behind the first contained only two passengers. LeFleur and Creighton got out, stopped in surprise to view the party on the terrace, and then came up, shoving by Red.

"Quite a party," Val observed. "But how did you manage to arrive so opportunely?"

"We have made a discovery," panted the Creole lawyer; "a very important discovery. What are these men doing here?"

"We got a court order to view this house for sale." The rival was truculent. "An' it's all legal. The mouthpiece says so," he indicated his counselor.

"Perhaps," Creighton's cool tones cut through, "you had better introduce us." There was a decided change in his manner. Gone was his shy nervousness, his slightly hesitant reserve. It was a keen business man who stood there now.

Val grinned. "You see before you the family skeleton. May I introduce Mr. Ralestone, who firmly believes that he is the Ralestone of Pirate's Haven? And three other—shall we say gentlemen—whom I myself have never met formally. Though I did have the pleasure, I believe," he addressed the Boss directly, "of blackening your eye."

"Yeah, I'm Ralestone, and I'm gonna have my rights," stated the rival briskly.

"You are a descendant of Roderick Ralestone?" asked LeFleur.

"Yuh know I am. I got proofs!"

"The man is a liar," Creighton said calmly.

As they stared at him, LeFleur nodded. Val saw an ugly grin begin to curve Red's thick lips.

"Yeah? An how do yuh know that, wise guy?" he asked.

"Because there is only one Roderick Ralestone in this generation and he is standing right there. Permit me to introduce Roderick St. Jean Ralestone!"

The person he turned to was Jeems!



CHAPTER XVII

THE RETURN OF RICK RALESTONE

Val ventured to break the sudden silence which resulted from Creighton's astonishing statement.

"But how—why—"

"Yeah," the rival had collected a measure of his scattered wits, "whatta yuh mean, wise guy?"

"Just this—" LeFleur drew himself up and faced the invaders sternly—"I have only this very morning deposited with the probate court certain documents making very plain the identity of this young man. Without the shadow of a doubt he is the only living descendant of Roderick Ralestone and his wife, Valerie St. Jean de Roche. I have also sworn out a complaint—"

Then the Boss took a hand in the game. "The boy's a minor," he observed.

"Through me," LeFleur returned, "Mr. Rupert Ralestone as nearest of kin has applied for guardianship and there will be no difficulty in the settlement of that matter."

"Yeah!" The rival threw his gloves on the terrace and glared not at LeFleur but at his own backing. Having stared at the lawyer of his party until that unfortunate man lost all assurance, he attacked the Boss. "So, wise guy, what now? We ain't got such a snap as yuh said we were gonna have. We were gonna move right in and take over the joint, were we? We didn't have anything to worry about. For once we was playin' with the law. Yeah, we were. We are nothin' but a gang of mugs. Whatta we gonna do now, huh? You oughta know. Ain't yuh been doin' our thinkin' for us all along? We can't grab the land and run. We gotta camp right here if we're gonna git anything. And how are we gonna—"

"Simpson!" the Boss's voice was sharp. "Be quiet! You are becoming wearisome. Gentlemen," he bowed slightly toward LeFleur and Creighton, "one cannot fight bad luck, and this time Fate smiles upon you. It was a good idea if it had worked," he added musingly. "Young Ralestone seems to have gathered all the aces into his hand. Even," the drawl became a sneer, "even the guardianship of the missing heir, which will mean a nice sum in the bank for the happy guardian, if all reports are true."

"What did you want here?" Val asked for the last time.

The Boss smiled. "I shall leave that mystery for you to unravel, my wounded hero. It should occupy an idle moment or two. Doubtless all will be made clear in the fullness of time. As for you," he turned upon LeFleur, "there is no use in your entertaining any foolish idea of calling the police. For our invasion today we have a court order; unhappily it is no longer of use. But we did come here in good faith, as we are prepared to prove. And all other evidence of any lawbreaking upon our part rests, I believe, upon the word of two boys, evidence which might be twisted by a clever lawyer. You may prosecute Simpson for perjury, of course. But I think that Simpson will not be in this part of the country long. Yes," he looked about him once more at garden and house, "it was a very good idea. A pity it did not work. Well, I must be going before I begin to curse my luck. When a man does that, he sometimes loses it. You must have found yours, I think."

"We did," Val answered, but the Boss did not hear him, for he had turned on his heel and was striding down the terrace. For a moment his followers hesitated uncertainly and then they were after him. Back into their sinister beetle-car went the invaders and then they were gone down the drive, leaving the Ralestones in possession of the victorious field.

"Now," Val said plaintively, "will somebody please tell me just what this is all about? Who is Jeems, really?"

"Just who I said," answered Creighton promptly. "Roderick St. Jean Ralestone, the only descendant of your pirate ancestor."

"Bettah tell us the story," suggested the swamper quietly. "Yo' ain't foolin', are yo', Mistuh Creighton?"

The New Yorker shook his head. "No, I'm not fooling. But you are not the first one to question my story." He smiled reminiscently. "Judge Henry Lane had to see every line of written proof this morning before he would admit that the tale might be true."

"But where did you find this 'proof'?" Val demanded as Jeems pulled up chairs for the lawyer and Creighton.

"In that chest of Jeems' which you brought out of the swamp on the night of the storm," he replied promptly. "And, young man," he said to Jeems indignantly, "if you had let me see those papers of yours a month ago, instead of waiting until last week, we would have had this matter cleared up then—"

"But then we might never have found the Luck!" Val protested.

"Humph, that piece of steel is historically interesting, no doubt," conceded Creighton, "but hardly worth risking your life for."

"No? Well, you heard what that man said just now—that we had found our luck. It's so; we have had good luck since. But I'm sorry; do get on with the story of Jeems' box."

"Ah gave it to him Monday," said the swamper slowly. "But, Mistuh Creighton, there weren't nothin' in that chest but some books full of handwritin'—most in some funny foreign stuff—an' a French prayer-book."

"Plenty to establish your right to the name and a quarter interest in the estate," snapped LeFleur. Val thought the lawyer rather resented the fact that it was Creighton and not he who had found the way out of their difficulties.

"Two of those books were ships' logs, kept in the fashion of diaries, partly in Latin," explained the New Yorker. "The log of the ship Annette Marie for the years 1814 and 1815 gave us what we wanted. The master was Captain Roderick Ralestone, although he concealed his name in a sort of an anagram. After his quarrel with his brother he apparently went to Lafitte and purchased the ship which he had once commanded for the smuggler. Then he sailed off into the Gulf to become a free-trader, with his headquarters first in Georgetown, British Guiana, then in Dutch Curacao, and finally at Port-au-Prince, Haiti. It was there that he met and fell in love with Valerie St. Jean de Roche, the only living child and heir of the Comte de Roche, who had survived the Terror of the French Revolution only to fall victim to the rebel slaves on his Haitian estates.

"Horribly injured, the Comte de Roche had been saved from death by the devotion of his daughter and her nurse, a free woman of color. These two women not only saved his life, but managed to keep him and themselves alive through the dark years which followed the horrors of the black uprising and the overthrow of the French rule. The courage of that lady of France must have been very great. But she was near to the end of her strength when she met Roderick Ralestone.

"Against the direct orders of the black despots in the land, young Ralestone got de Roche and his daughter away on his ship. Her maid chose to remain among her people. Ralestone hints that she was a sort of priestess of Voodoo and that it had been her dark powers which had protected the lives of those she loved.

"Ralestone took the refugees to Curacao, but de Roche did not survive. He lived only long enough to see his daughter married to her rescuer and to persuade his son-in-law to legally adopt the name of St. Jean de Roche, that an old and honored family might not be forgotten. The Comte's only son had been killed by the blacks.

"So it was as Roderick St. Jean—he dropped the 'de Roche' in time—that he returned here in 1830. His wife was dead, worn out while yet in her youth by the horrors of her girlhood. But Roderick brought with him a ten-year-old boy who had the right to both the name of Ralestone and that of de Roche.

"Roderick himself was greatly changed. Years of free-trading, both in the Gulf and in the South Seas, had made him wholly sailor. A cutlass cut disfigured his face and altered the line of his mouth. Anyone who had known Roderick Ralestone would have little interest in Captain St. Jean, the merchant adventurer. He discusses this point at some length in his log, always concealing his real name.

"For the space of a year or two he was content to live quietly. He even opened a small shop and dealt in luxuries from the south. Then the desire to wander, which must have been the key-note of his life, drove him out into the world again. He placed his son in the care of a certain priest, whom he trusted, and went south to become one of the visionary revolutionists who were fighting their way back and across South and Central America. In one bloody engagement he fell, as his son notes in the old logs which he was now using to record his own daily experiences."

"Ricky said," Val mused, "that Roderick Ralestone never died in his bed. What became of the son?"

"Father Justinian wanted him to enter the Church, but in spite of his strict training he had no vocation. The money his father had left with the priest was enough to establish him in a small coastwise trading venture, and later he developed a flatboat freight service running upriver to Nashville."

"But didn't he ever try to get in touch with the Ralestones?" Val asked.

"No. When Roderick Ralestone sailed from New Orleans he seems to have determined to cut himself off from the past entirely. As I said, he used an anagram to hide his name all the way through the log, and doubtless his son never knew that there was anything strange about his father's past. Laurent St. Jean, the son, prospered. Just before the outbreak of the Civil War he was reckoned one of the ten wealthiest men of his native city.

"But that wealth vanished in the war when shipping no longer went forth from the port. I did come across one interesting fact in Laurent's notes covering those years. In 1861 Laurent St. Jean built a blockade-runner called the Red Bird. His backer in the venture was a Mr. Ralestone of Pirate's Haven. So once Ralestone did meet Ralestone without being aware of the fact.

"Laurent St. Jean was imprisoned by 'Beast' Butler, along with other prominent men of the city, when the Yankees captured New Orleans. And he died in 1867 from a lingering illness contracted during his imprisonment. His son, Rene St. Jean, came home from war to find himself ruined. His father's shipping business existed on paper only. Having the grit and determination of his grandfather, he struggled along for almost ten years trying to get back on his feet. But those were dark years for the whole country.

"In 1876 St. Jean gave up the struggle. With his Creole wife and their two sons he moved into the swamps. Working first as a guide and trapper and then as a hunter of birds, he managed to make a sparse living. His eldest son followed in his footsteps, but the younger took to the sea. Roderick St. Jean, the eldest son, died of yellow fever in 1890. He left one son to the guardianship of his brother who had come home from the sea. That son came to look upon his uncle as his father and the real relationship between them was half forgotten.

"But Rene St. Jean the second was curious. He knew something of the world and he was interested in the past. It was his custom to do a great amount of reading, especially reading which concerned the history of his own state and city. And once he was inclined to get out the old sea chest which had been moved with the family for so many years. Then he must have discovered his relationship to the Ralestones; perhaps he solved the anagram or found the pasted pages in the prayer-book—

"He was not ambitious for himself, but he wanted a better chance for his foster-son and nephew than the one he had had. So he endeavored to prove his claim to this property. Unfortunately, the lawyer he trusted was a shyster of the worst sort. He himself had no belief in his client's story and merely bled him for small sums each month without ever really looking into the matter."

"Gran'pappy said he was tryin' to git his rights," broke in Jeems. "He nevah tol' mah pappy what he knowed. An' he wouldn't let anyone see into that chest—he kep' it undah his bed. Then aftah Pappy died of the fever—'long with mah mothah—Gran'pappy cotched it too. An' the doctah said that was what made him so fo'getful aftahwards. He stopped goin' in town; but he came heah—'huntin' his rights,' he said. An' he tol' me that our fortune was hidden heah. 'Course," Jeems looked at them apologetically, "it soun's sorta silly, but when Gran'pappy tol' yo' things yo' kinda believed 'em. So aftah he died Ah usta come huntin' heah too. An' then when Ah opened the chest and foun' these—" From his breast pocket he drew a wash-leather bag and opened it.

He held out to Val a chain of gold mesh ending in a carnelian carved into a seal. "This is youah crest," he pointed to the seal. "Ah took it in town an' a man at the museum tol' me about it. An' this heah is Ralestone, too," he indicated a small miniature painted on a slip of yellowed ivory. Val was looking at the face of the Ralestone rebel, as near like the water-color copy Charity had made of the museum portrait as one pea is to its pod-mate. Creighton took up the small painting.

"Hm-m," he looked from the ivory to Jeems and then to Val, "this is the final proof. Either one of you might have sat for this. You have the same coloring and features. If it were not for a slight difference of expression you might pass for twins. At any rate, there is no denying that you are both Ralestones."

"I don't think that we'll ever attempt to deny it," Val laughed. "But you were right, Jeems—I mean Roderick," he said to his newly discovered cousin, "you do have as much right here as we do."

Jeems colored. "Ah'm sorry for sayin' that," he confessed. "Ah thought yo' were right smart and too good for us. An' Ah'm sorry Ah played ha'nt. But Ah didn't expec' yo' would evah see me, only the niggahs, an' I didn't care 'bout them. Ah always came when yo' were 'way or in bed."

"Well, you've explained your interest in the place," Val assented, "but what about the rival? Why did he appear?"

"It started in a blackmail plot. Your family have been wealthy, you know," explained LeFleur. "But then the scheme became more serious when the oil prospectors aroused interest in the swamp. Already several men whose property bounds yours have been approached by the Central American Oil Company with an offer for their land. It would not at all surprise me if you were asked to dispose of your swamp wasteland for a good price. And the rumor of oil is what made the rival, as you call him, try to press his false claim instead of merely holding it over you as a threat."

"The Luck is certainly doing its stuff," Val observed. "Here's the lost heir found, oil-wells bubbling at our back door—"

"I would hardly say that, Mr. Valerius," remonstrated LeFleur.

"They may bubble yet," the boy assured him airily. "I wouldn't put it beyond the power of that length of Damascus steel to make wells bubble. Oil-wells bubbling," Val continued from the point where the lawyer had interrupted him, "Rupert turning out to be the missing author—"

"What was that?" demanded Creighton sharply. He was on the point of handing a small book to Jeems.

"We just discovered that Rupert is your missing author," Val explained. "Didn't you guess when you heard the story of the missing Ralestone? The family went into town to tell you all about it; that's why we were alone when the invaders arrived."

"Mr. Ralestone my missing author! No, I didn't guess. I was too interested in the story—but I should have! How stupid!" He looked down at the book he still held and then put it into the swamper's hand. "Between the pages of the prayer-book, covering the offices for St. Louis' Day, you'll find the birth certificate for Laurent St. Jean with his right name," he said. "That's a very important paper to keep, young man. Mr. Ralestone my author." He wiped his forehead with the handkerchief from his breast-pocket. "How stupid of me not to have seen at once. But why—"

"He had some idea that his stuff was no good when he didn't hear from that agent," Val explained, "so he just tried to forget the whole matter."

"But I have to see him, I have to see him at once." The New Yorker looked about him as if by will-power alone he could summon Rupert to stand before him on the terrace.

"Stay to supper and you will," Val invited. "Ricky and I discovered him for you just as we promised we would. But then you've given us Rod in return. I am not," Val told his cousin, "going to call you Rick even though there is a tradition for it. There are too many 'Ricks' complicating the family history now. I think you had better be 'Rod'."

"Anythin' yo' say," he grinned.

For the third time that afternoon Val heard a car coming up the drive.

"If this should turn out to be the Grand Chan of Tartary or the Lama of Peru I shall not be one iota surprised," he announced. "After what I've been through this afternoon, nothing, absolutely nothing, would surprise me. Oh, it's only the family."

With the impatience of one who has a good earth-shaking shock ready to administer, he watched his wandering relatives disembark. Charity and Holmes were still with them and a sort of aura of disappointment hung over the group. Then Ricky looked up and with a cry of joy came up the terrace steps in what seemed like a single leap.

"Oh, Mr. Creighton," she began when Val lifted his hand. "Let me tell it," he begged, "I've been waiting for a chance like this for years." Ricky was obediently silent, thinking that he wished to break the mystery of the author. But Jeems and LeFleur understood that it was to them Val appealed.

"Val, what are you doing out of bed?" was Rupert's first question.

"Saving the old homestead while you went joy-riding. We had visitors this afternoon."

"Visitors? Who?" he began when his brother silenced him with a frown.

"Oh, let's not go into that now," Val said hurriedly. "There is something more important to be discussed. Since you left this afternoon we have had an addition to the family."

"An addition to the family," puzzled Ricky. "What do you mean?"

"Rick Ralestone has come back," Val announced.

"Val, hadn't you better go back to bed?" suggested his sister.

"Not now," he grinned at her. "I haven't lost my mind yet, nor am I raving. Ladies and gentlemen," Val prepared to echo Creighton's speech of an hour before, "permit me to introduce Roderick St. Jean de Roche Ralestone, the missing heir!"

With an impish grin Val had never seen on his face before, Jeems clicked his heels in a creditable imitation of a court bow.



CHAPTER XVIII

RUPERT BRINGS HOME HIS MARCHIONESS

"Such a nice domestic scene," Val observed.

Ricky looked up from the bowl into which she was shelling peas. "Now just what do you mean by that?" she asked suspiciously.

"Nothing, nothing at all. It's getting so I can't say a word around here without you suspecting some sort of a catch in it," her brother complained. He shifted the drawing-board Rod had fixed up for him an inch or two. Although Val's arm was at last out of the sling, he was not supposed to use it unless absolutely necessary.

"Well, after that afternoon when you made the missing heir appear like a rabbit out of a hat—" began his sister.

"Rod," Val called down to where their cousin was busied over the stretching of the new badminton net, "did you hear that? She referred to you as a rabbit—deliberately."

"Hm-m," Rod answered in absent-minded fashion. "That cat of Miss Charity's just walked away with one of those feathered things yo' bat 'round."

"Let us hope that he returns it in time," Val said; "otherwise I can prophesy that you are going to spend the rest of the morning crawling around under hedges and things hunting for him and it. Ricky will not be balked. If she says that we are going to play badminton—well, we are going to play badminton."

"I think that you might help too." Ricky attacked a fresh pod viciously as their cousin came up on the terrace. He stopped for a moment by Ricky's chair, long enough to gather the pods together on the paper she had put down for them, piling them up in a more orderly fashion than she was capable of.

"Doing what?" Val inquired. "You know that Lucy has chased everyone out of the house. And now that Rod has finished setting out the lawn sports, what is there left to do? By the way, did Sam mend that croquet mallet, the one with the loose head?"

"The one that you broke hitting the stone with when you aimed at your ball yesterday?" she asked sweetly. "Yes, I saw to that this morning."

"Then what more is there to worry about? Let the party begin." Val reached for his box of pencils.

That afternoon promptly at three-thirty the Ralestones of Pirate's Haven were going to give their first party. They had lived, eaten, and slept with the idea of a party for the past week until Rupert rebelled and disappeared for the morning, taking Charity with him. He declared before he left that the house was no longer habitable for anyone above the mental level of a party-mad monomaniac, a statement with which Val privately agreed. But Ricky did trap him before he got the roadster out and made him promise to bring home two pounds of salted nuts and some more ice, because she simply knew that they wouldn't have enough.

Ricky dropped the last of the peas into the bowl and leaned back in her canvas deck-chair. "I'm going to wear green," she murmured dreamily, "with that leaf thing in my hair. And Charity's going to wear her rose, the one that swishes when she walks."

"I think I'll appear in saffron," Val announced firmly. "Somehow I feel like saffron. How about you, Rod?"

The thin, efficient, brown-faced person who was Roderick St. Jean de Roche Ralestone, to grant him his full name, stretched lazily and transferred a fistful of Ricky's peas to his mouth, a mouth which was no longer sullen. At Val's question he raised his shoulders in one of his French shrugs and considered.

"Yellow, with lilies behind mah ears," he grinned at Ricky. "Bettah give them somethin' to stare at; they'll all be powerful interested, anyway."

"Yes, the lost viscount," Val agreed. "Of course, you're really only a Lord like me, but it sounds better to say 'the lost viscount.' You'll share the limelight with Rupert and the Luck, so you'd better take that pair of my flannels which haven't turned quite yellow yet."

Rod shook his head. "This time Ah have mah own. Ah went in town shoppin' yesterday. It's mah turn to share clothes. Youah brothah told me to get yo' some shirts. So Ah did. Lucy put them in the top drawer."

"Don't tell me," Val begged, aroused by this news, "that we are actually able to afford some new clothes again?"

Rod nodded and Ricky sat up. "Don't be silly," she said, "we're comfortably well off. With Rupert writing books, and a lot of oil or something in the swamp, why, what have we got to worry about? And next fall Rod's going to college and I'm taking that course in dress designing and Rupert's going to write another book and—and—" Her inventive powers failed as Holmes came out on the terrace.

"Hello there." Val glanced at his watch. "I don't want to seem inhospitable, but you're about four hours too early. We haven't even crawled into our party duds."

"So I see. But this isn't a social call. By the way, where's Charity?"

"Oh, she went off with Rupert this morning," answered Ricky. "And I think it was mean of them, running out on us that way, when there was so much to do."

It seemed to Val that there was a faint shadow of irritation across the open good nature of Holmes' smile when he heard her answer. "That damsel is becoming very elusive nowadays," he observed as he sat down. "But now for business."

"More business? Not another oil-well!" Ricky expressed her surprise vividly with upflung hands.

"Not an oil-well, no. Just this—" He pulled Val's black note-book from his pocket. "Now I am not going to tell you that I have shown them to a publisher and that he wants fifty thousand or so at five dollars apiece. But I did show them to that friend I spoke of. He isn't very well known at present but he will be some day. His name is Fenly Moss and he is interested in animated cartoons. He has some ideas that sound rather big to me.

"Fen says that these animal drawings of yours show promise and he wants to know whether you ever thought of trying something along his line?"

Val shook his head, impatient to hear the rest.

"Well, he's in town right now on his vacation and he's coming out to see you tomorrow. I advise you, Ralestone, that if Fen makes you the proposition I think he's going to, to grab it. It'll mean hard work for you and plenty of it, but there is a future to it."

"I don't know how to thank you," the boy began when Holmes frowned at him half-seriously. "None of that. I was really doing Fen a favor, but you needn't tell him that. Do you know how long Charity and your brother are going to be gone?"

"No. But they'll be back for lunch," Ricky said. "If they remember lunch—they're getting so vague lately. Val went out to call them to dinner last night and it took him a good five minutes to get them out of the garden."

"Five? Nearer ten," scoffed her brother.

Holmes got up abruptly. "Well, I'll be drifting. When is this binge of yours?"

"Three-thirty, which really means four," answered Ricky. "Aren't you going to stay to lunch?"

The New Yorker shook his head. "Sorry, I've another engagement. Thanks just the same."

"Thank you!" Val waved the note-book as he vanished. "Wonder why he hurried off that way?"

"Mad to think that Miss Charity was gone," answered Rod shrewdly. "Yo've had that board long enough." He calmly possessed himself of Val's drawing equipment. "Time to rest."

"Yes, grandfather," his cousin assented meekly.

Ricky slapped at a fly. "It seems to get hotter and hotter," she said. From the breast pocket of her sport dress she produced a handkerchief and mopped her face. Then she looked at the handkerchief in surprise.

"What's the matter? Some face come off along with the paint?" asked Val.

"No. But I just remembered what this is—our clue!"

"You mean the handkerchief we found in the hall? I wonder who—"

Rod reached up and took it out of her hand.

"Mine. Miss Charity gave me a dozen last Christmas."

"Then you left it there," Ricky laughed. "Well, that solves the last of our mysteries."

"All present or accounted for," Val agreed as around the house came Rupert and their tenant.

"So there you are," began Ricky. "And I'd like to know what you've been doing all morning—"

"Would you really?" asked Rupert.

Ricky stared at him for a long moment and then she arose before transferring her gaze to Charity. It might have been sunburn or the heat Ricky had complained of which colored the cheeks of the Boston Biglow.

"Rod! Val!" cried Ricky. "Where are your manners?" As she sank forward in a deep and graceful curtsy she added, "Can't you see that Rupert has brought home his Marchioness?"

"Now that," said Val, as he held out his hand to the new mistress of Pirate's Haven, "is what I call 'Ralestone Luck.'"

THE END