"Now we have an extremely promising book and no author—"
"What I can't understand," cut in Holmes, "is the modesty of the author. Why hasn't he written to Lever?"
"That is the most unfortunate part of the whole affair." Mr. Creighton shook his head. "Lever recalled that the chap had said in the letter that if Lever found the manuscript unsalable he should destroy it, as the writer was moving about and had no permanent address. The fellow added that if he didn't hear from Lever he would assume that it was not acceptable. Lever wrote to the address given in the letter to acknowledge receipt, but that was all."
"Mysterious," Val commented, interested in spite of himself.
"Just so. Lever deduced from the tone of the letter that the writer was very uncertain of his own powers and hesitated to submit his manuscript. And yet, what we have is a very fine piece of work, far beyond the ability of the average beginner. The author must have written other things.
"The novel is historical, with a New Orleans setting. Its treatment is so detailed that only one who had lived here or had close connections with this country could have produced it. Mr. Brewster, knowing that I was about to travel south, asked me to see if I could discover our missing author through his material. So far I have failed; our man is unknown to any of the writers of the city or to any of those interested in literary matters.
"Yet he knows New Orleans and its history as few do today except those of old family who have been born and bred here. Dr. Hanly Richardson of Tulane University has assured me that much of the material used is authentic—historically correct to the last detail. And it was Dr. Richardson who suggested that several of the scenes must have actually occurred, becoming with the passing of time part of the tradition of some aristocratic family.
"The period of the story is that time of transition when Louisiana passed from Spain to France and then under the control of the United States. It covers the years immediately preceding the Battle of New Orleans. Unfortunately, those were years of disturbance and change. Events which might have been the talk of the town, and so have found description in gossipy memoirs, were swallowed by happenings of national importance. It is, I believe, in intimate family records only that I can find the clue I seek."
"Which scenes"—Ricky's eyes shone in the firelight—"are those Dr. Richardson believes real?"
"Well, he was very certain that the duel of the twin brothers must have occurred—Why, Mr. Ralestone," he interrupted himself as the stick Val was about to place on the fire fell from his hands and rolled across the floor. "Mr. Ralestone, what is the matter?"
Across his shoulder Ricky signaled her brother. And above her head Val saw Holmes' eyes narrow shrewdly.
"Nothing. I'm sorry I was so clumsy." Val stooped hurriedly to hide his confusion.
"A duel between twin brothers." Ricky twisted one of the buttons which marched down the front of her sport dress. "That sounds exciting."
"They fought at midnight"—Creighton was enthralled by the story he was telling—"and one was left for dead. The scene is handled with restraint and yet you'd think that the writer had been an eye-witness. Now if such a thing ever did happen, there would have been a certain amount of talk afterwards—"
Charity nodded. "The slaves would have spread the news," she agreed, "and the person who found the wounded twin."
Val kept his eyes upon the hearth-stone. There was no stain there, but his vivid imagination painted the gray as red as it had been that cold night when the slave woman had come to find her master lying there, his brother's sword across his body. Someone had used the story of the missing Ralestone. But who today knew that story except themselves, Charity, LeFleur, and some of the negroes?
"And you think that some mention of such an event might be found in the papers of the family concerned?" asked Ricky. She was leaning forward in her chair, her lips parted eagerly.
"Or in those of some other family covering the same period," Creighton added. "I realize that this is an impertinence on my part, but I wonder if such mention might not be found among the records of your own house. From what I have seen and heard, your family was very prominent in the city affairs of that time—"
Ricky stood up. "There is no need to ask, Mr. Creighton. My brother and I will be most willing to help you. Unfortunately, Rupert is very much immersed in a business matter just now, but Val and I will go through the papers we have."
Val choked down the protest that was on his lips just in time to nod agreement. For some reason Ricky wanted to keep the secret. Very well, he would play her game. At least he would until he knew what lay behind her desire for silence.
"That is most kind." Creighton was beaming upon both of them. "I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your coöperation in this matter—"
"Not at all," answered Ricky with that deceptive softness in her voice which masked her rising temper. "We are only too grateful to be allowed to share a secret."
And then her brother guessed that she did not mean Creighton's secret but some other. She crossed the room and rang the bell for Letty-Lou to bring coffee. Something triumphant in her step added to Val's suspicion. Like the Englishman of Kipling's poem, Ricky was most to be feared when she grew polite. He turned in time to see her wink at Charity.
Rupert came in just then, wet and thoroughly out of sorts, full of the evidences he had discovered on Ralestone lands bordering the swamp that strangers had been camping there. Their guests all stayed to supper, lingering long about the table to discuss Rupert's find, so that Val did not get a chance to be alone with Ricky to demand an explanation. And for some reason she seemed to be adroitly avoiding him. He did have her almost cornered in the upper hall when Letty-Lou came up behind him and plucked at his sleeve.
"Mistuh Val," she said, "dat Jeems boy done wan' to see yo'all."
"Bother Jeems!" Val exploded, his eyes on Ricky's back. But he stepped into the bedroom where the swamper was still imprisoned by Lucy's orders.
The boy was propped up on his pillows, looking out of the window. His body was tense. At the sound of Val's step he turned his bandaged head.
"Can't yo' git me outa heah?" he demanded.
"Why?"
"The watah's up!" His eyes were upon the water-filled darkness of the garden.
"But that's all right," the other assured him. "Sam says that it won't reach the top of the levee. At the worst, only the lower part of the garden will be flooded."
Jeems glanced at Val over his shoulder and then without a word he edged toward the side of the bed and tried to stand. But with a muffled gasp he sank back again, pale and weak. Awkwardly Val forced him back against his pillows.
"It's all right," he assured him again.
But in answer the swamper shook his head violently, "It ain't all right in the swamp."
In a flash Val caught his meaning. Swampers lived on house-boats for the most part, and the boats will outride all but unusual floods. But Jeems' cabin was built on land, land none too stable even in dry weather. The swamp boy touched Val's hand.
"It ain't safe. Two of them piles is rotted. If the watah gits that far, they'll go."
"You mean the piles holding up your cabin platform?" Val asked.
He nodded. For a second Val caught a glimpse of forlorn loneliness beneath the sullen mask Jeems habitually wore.
"But there's nothing you can do now—"
"It ain't the cabin. Ah gotta git the chest—"
"The one in the cabin?"
His black eyes were fixed upon Val's, and then they swerved and rested upon the wall behind the young Ralestone.
"Ah gotta git the chest," he repeated simply.
And Val knew that he would. He would get out of bed and go into the swamp after that treasure of his. Which left only one thing for Val to do.
"I'll get the chest, Jeems. Let me have your key to the cabin. I'll take the outboard motor and be back before I'm missed."
"Yo' don't know the swamp—"
"I know how to find the cabin. Where's the key?"
"In theah," he pointed to the highboy.
Val's fingers closed about the bit of metal.
"Mistuh," Jeems straightened, "Ah won't forgit this."
Val glanced toward the downpour without.
"Neither will I, in all probability," he said dryly as he went out.
It had been on just such a night as this that the missing Ralestone had gone out into the gloom. But he was coming back again, Val reminded himself hurriedly. Of course he was. With a shake he pulled on his trench-coat and slipped out the front door unseen.
The rain, fine and needle-like, stung Val's face. There were ominous pools of water gathering in the garden depressions. Even the small stream which bisected their land had grown from a shallow trickle into a thick, mud-streaked roll crowned with foam.
But the bayou was the worst. It had put off its everyday sleepiness with a roar. A chicken coop wallowed by as the boy struggled with the knot of the painter which held the outboard. And after the coop traveled a dead tree, its topmost branches bringing up against the plantation landing with a crack. Val waited for it to whirl on before he got on board his craft.
The adventure was more serious than he had thought. It might not be a case of merely going downstream and into the swamp to the cabin; it might be a case of fighting the rising water in grim battle. Why he did not turn back to the house then and there he never knew. What would have happened if he had? he sometimes speculated afterward. If Ricky had not come into the garden to hunt him? If together they had not—
While Val went with the current, his voyage was ease itself. But when he strove to cut across and so reach the mouth of the hidden swamp-stream, he narrowly escaped upsetting. As it was, he fended off some dark blot bobbing through the water, his palm meeting it with a force that jarred his bones.
But he did make the mouth of the swamp-stream. Switching on the strong search-light in the bow, he headed on. And because he was moving now against the current, it seemed that he lost two feet for every one that he advanced.
The muddy water was whipped into foam where it tore around shrub and willow. There were no longer any confining banks, only a waste of water glittering through the dark foliage. The drear habitat of the vultures was being swept bare by the scouring of the incoming streams, but its moldy stench still arose stronger than ever, as if some foulness were being stirred up from its ancient bed.
It was only by chance that Val found the drying rack which marked the boundary of Jeems' property. Here the land was higher than the flood, which had not yet spread inland. He tied the boat to a willow and splashed ashore. In the lower portions of the path his feet sank into patches of wet. Something which might have been—and probably was—a snake oozed away from the beam of his pocket torch.
The clearing was much as it had been, save that the door of the chicken-run stood ajar and its feathered population was gone. But under the cabin Val saw the betraying sparkle of water. The bayou in the rear must have topped flood level.
Someone had been there before him. The lock was battered and there had been an attempt to pry loose its staples, an attempt which had left betraying gouges on the door frame. But misused as it had been, the lock yielded to the key and Val went in. Warned by a lapping sound from beneath, it did not take him long to get the chest, relock the door, and head back to the boat.
He was none too soon. Already, in the few moments of his absence, there were rills cutting across the mud, rills which were growing in strength and size. And the flood around the drying rack was up a good three inches. Val dumped the chest into the bow with little ceremony and climbed in after it, his wet trousers clinging damply to his legs. Something plate-armored and possessing wicked yellow eyes swam effortlessly through the light beam—a 'gator bound for the Gulf, whether he would or no.
The return as far as the bayou was easy enough, for again the boat was borne on the current. But when Val faced the torn waters of the river he experienced a certain tightness of throat and chill of blood. What might have been the roof of a small shed was passing lumpily as he hesitated. Then came a tree burdened with a small 'coon which stared at the boy piteously, its eyes green in the light. An eddy sent its ship close to the boat; the top branches clung a moment to the bow. And to Val's surprise, the 'coon roused itself to a mighty effort and crossed into the egg-shell safety the boat offered. Once in the outboard, it retreated to the bow where it crouched beside the chest and kept a wary eye on Val's every movement.
But he could not rescue the wildcat which swept by spitting at the water from a log, nor the shivering doe which awaited the coming of death, marooned on an islet which was fast being cut away by the hungry waters. And all the time the stinging rain fed the flood.
Val gripped the rudder until the bar was printed deep across his palm. Soon it would be too late. He must cross now, heading diagonally downstream to escape the full fury of the current. With a deep breath he turned out into the bayou.
It was like fighting some vast animated feather-bed. His greatest efforts were as nothing against the overpowering sweep seaward. And there was constant danger from the floating booty of the storm. The muddy spray lashed his body, filling the bottom of his craft as if it were a tea-cup. And once the boat was whirled almost around.
Val was beginning to wonder just how long a swimmer might last in that black fog of rain, wind, and water when his bow eased into comparatively quiet water. He had crossed the main current; now was the time to head upstream. Grimly he did, to begin a struggle which was to take on all the more horrible properties of a nightmare. For this was many times worse than his fight against the swamp-stream.
Twice the engine sputtered protestingly and Val thought of trying to leap ashore. But stubbornly the outboard fought on. If there ever were a sturdy ship, fit to be named with Columbus' gallant craft or Hudson's vessel, it was that frail outboard which buffeted the rising waters of a Louisiana bayou gone flood mad.
It achieved the impossible; it crept upstream inch by inch, escaping disaster after disaster by the thinness of a dime. Since he had apparently not been born to drown, Val thought as he saw his headlight touch the tip of the landing, he would doubtless depart this life by hanging.
Then his light picked out something else which lay between him and the landing. The sleek, knife-bowed cruiser certainly did not belong to Pirate's Haven. And what neighbor would come calling by water on such a night? It was moored by two thick ropes to a sunken post, and already the mooring was dragging the bow down. Val headed in toward it, running the outboard between the stranger and the landing.
Out of the blackness ashore a shadow arose and waved at him frenziedly. Then he saw Ricky's white face above her long oil-silk cape. Her hair was plastered tight to her skull and she was protecting her eyes from the fury of the rain with her hands.
Val sent the boat inshore until it bit into the crumbling surface of the levee with a shock which threatened his balance. Ricky snatched at the painter and held steady while he jumped. They made the boat fast and Val landed the chest. The passenger did his own disembarking, making his way into the garden without a backward look. Then Val demanded an explanation.
"What are you doing here?" he tried to out-screech the wind.
In answer she clapped her wet, muddy hand across his mouth and pulled him back from the levee.
They reached the semi-shelter of a rotting summer-house where he put down the chest. Ricky pushed her wet hair out of her eyes. It was impossible for them to hear each other without screaming madly.
"Jeems told me—after you left—Val! How could you be so mad!"
"I made it." He touched the chest with his toe. "After we had practically kidnapped him, we couldn't let his belongings just float away. But why are you out here? And where did that boat come from?"
"I came out here after Jeems told me. I'm all right." She laughed shakily. "I've got my oldest clothes on—and this," she touched her cape. "I couldn't stay in there—waiting—after I knew. And I didn't want Rupert to ask questions. So I said that I was going to bed with a headache. Then I slipped out here to the levee. And I hadn't been here two minutes before that boat came downstream. There were four men in it and they got out and went into the bushes over there. And, Val, Rupert is down at the other end of the garden where they are having trouble with the levee. Holmes and Creighton went down to see if they could help, too, just after you left. There's nobody but Charity up at the house with Lucy and Letty-Lou. Val, what are we going to do?" she appealed to him.
"First I'll investigate these visitors," he said easily, though he felt far from easy within.
"Me too," she said firmly if ungrammatically, and since Val could not wait to argue, she went along.
They took the route she had watched the invaders follow, wriggling through wet bushes and around trees.
"Val, look out!" She grabbed his arm and so saved him from tumbling headlong into a black hole in the ground. Vines and a small shrub or two had been ruthlessly torn out to bare the opening. It was here that the visitors must have gone to earth. And then Val had a glimmering of the truth; the "Boss" and his friends had at last found Jeems' private door.
Prudence urged that they return to the house and send Sam Two or some other messenger down to the cross-roads store to summon the police by phone. Prudence however had never successfully advised any Ralestone. They had a decided taste for fighting their own battles. So, torch in hand, Val dropped into the hole. And a moment later Ricky slid down to join him.
They stood in a rough passage. Stout timbers banked its sides and guarded the roof. There was a damp underground smell such as Val had noted in the cellar of the house, but the air was fresh enough. After the first hasty survey, the boy held his fingers over the bulb of the flashlight so that only the faintest glimmer escaped to light their path.
The passage was short, ending abruptly in a low bricked room. Save for themselves, a tangle of rotting rope in a far corner, and two lively black beetles, it was empty.
"Val," Ricky's throaty whisper reached him, "can't you guess what this is? The first pirate Ralestone's storage-house!"
It was a likely enough explanation—though nothing could have been stored there very long; the place was too damp. Beads of slimy moisture from the walls dripped slowly down, shining like silver in the light.
At the other side of the room was a corridor branching away. But this they barely glanced into, little knowing how that neglect was to prove disastrous in the end. It was the main door to their right which interested them most, for that led, so far as Val could determine, toward the house. And that must have been the one the mysterious visitors had followed.
Thus they came into the second of their pirate ancestor's store-rooms. This one was long and narrow. Three wooden casks eaten with decay and spotted with fungus stood against the wall, testifying to the use to which this chamber had been put, though the all-pervading damp could not have been good for the wine.
Again a dark archway tempted them on, and the third room into which they came had a more grim reminder of the scarlet past of the house. For Ricky stumbled over something which clinked dully. And when Val used the flash they looked down upon a telltale length of chain ending in an iron ring, its other end soldered into the wall.
"Val," Ricky's voice quavered, "did—did they keep people here?"
"Slaves, perhaps," her brother answered soberly and shoved the rusting metal aside with his foot. But there were two other chains hanging from the wall, speaking of past horrors of which he did not care to think.
And then as their light picked out these damning testimonials, Val thought that the Ralestones, for all their pride and fine, brave airs, had been only pirates after all, akin to those whom they were now hunting through the dark.
There was a low arched doorway of brick on the right side of the room, and this they passed through. Beyond were three broad stone steps, worn a little on the treads, one cracked clear across. These led to a wide landing paved with brick. Here the walls were brick as well. Ricky touched one involuntarily and drew back her hand with a little exclamation of disgust. She wiped her palm vigorously on the wet surface of her cape.
Everywhere was the smell of rot and slow, vile decay. In spite of its historical associations, decided Val, this vault should be sealed forever from the daylight and left to the sole occupancy of those nameless things which creep in its dark. The very air, in spite of its freshness, seemed tainted.
Another flight of stairs was before them, the treads fashioned of stone but equipped with a rotted wooden hand-rail. And above was the faint reflection of light and the sound of voices. Val hesitated and realized for the first time how foolhardy their expedition was.
Those above would be prepared to handle interruptions. Val was determined to keep Ricky out of trouble, and to go on alone was the rankest folly. But, as he hesitated, the decision was taken out of his hands, for the light above suddenly became brighter. Grabbing at Ricky's arm, he stumbled back into the shelter of the archway, pulling her after him.
A round circle of light shone plainly at the top of the stairs. Someone was coming down. Ricky's breath was warm on Val's cheek and she moved with a faint crackling of her cape which sounded as loud as a thunderclap in his ears.
"How're we gonna do it without bustin' the wall down?" demanded an aggrieved voice from the top of the stairs. "There ain't no knob, no handle, no nothin' to work it from this side. And these guys what stored their stuff here in the boot-leggin' days never got into the house."
"The boy got through, didn't he?" Val knew that voice, the Boss of the swamp meeting. "Well, if he did, we can."
"Lissen, Boss, it's a secret, ain't it? An' we gotta know how it works before we can work it. An' lissen here, you swamp bum, you keep outta my way—see? I don't care if you were one of Mike Flanigan's boys; that don't cut no ice with me." This truculent warning must have been addressed to an unseen companion on the same stair level. The listeners below heard a faint sound which might have marked a collision and then the hiss of swamp French spoken hurriedly and angrily.
"What're you gonna do now, Boss?"
The light half-way down the stairs paused. "There is some way of opening that panel—"
"An' we gotta find it. All right, all right. But tell me how."
"I don't know whether it will be necessary to open it—from this side."
"What d'ya mean?"
"Use that thick skull of yours, Red. Doors swing two ways, don't they? They can be used either to go in or to go out."
"Got it!" The thick voice was oily with flattering approval. "We can get out this way—"
"Smart work, Red. Did you think that out all by yourself?" asked the other contemptuously. "Yes, we can come out this way when"—his voice was sharp with purpose—"we are finished. Send one of these swampers down to the levee where the men are working. As long as this flood keeps rising we're safe. Then the other three of us will go for the house. We may be seen that way, but there's no use spending any more time here playing tick-tack-toe on that wood up there. We locate what we want, and if we're cornered we can come out through here to the bayou. Slick enough."
"Great stuff, Boss—" Red began. But the rest was muffled, for Ricky and Val drew back into the room of the chains. There was only one thing to do now—reach Rupert and the others and prepare to meet these skulkers in the open. But before they had quite crossed the room Ricky came to grief. She caught her foot in one of those gruesome chains and stumbled forward, falling on her hands and knee. The noise of her fall echoed around the low chamber with betraying clamor.
A white light beat upon them as Val stooped to aid Ricky.
"Stop!" came the shout, but Val had only one thought, to dim that light. He swung back his arm and flung his own flash straight at the other. There was a grunt of pain and the light fell to the floor. With the tinkle of breaking glass it went out. Val pulled Ricky to her feet and threw her toward the door, forgetting everything but the wild panic which urged him out of that place of foul darkness. They bruised their hands against the brick as they felt for the opening, and then they were out in the other chamber.
"Val," Ricky clung to him, "I've got that little flash I keep under my pillow at night. Wait a minute until I get it out of my pocket. We can't find our way out of here without a light."
Muffled sounds from behind them suggested that their pursuers were on the trail even without light. After all, given time enough, it would be easy for them to feel their way out of the vaults. Val hustled Ricky on, taking his direction from one of the wine-casks he had bumped into. And before he allowed her to hunt for her torch they stood in the first of the chambers.
The light she produced was poor and it flickered warningly. But it was good enough for them to see the dark opening which led to the outer world. They ducked into this just as the first of the other party came cursing into the open. At Val's orders, Ricky switched off the light and they crept along by the wall, one hand on its guiding surface.
But the way seemed longer than it had upon their entering. Surely they should have reached the garden entrance by now. And the surface underfoot remained level instead of slanting upward. Suddenly Ricky gave a little cry.
"We've taken the wrong passage! There's only a blank wall in front of us!"
She was right. The torch showed a brick surface across their path, and Val remembered too late the second passage out of the first chamber. They must go back and hope to elude the others in the dark.
"They may have all gone out, thinking we were still ahead of them," he mused aloud.
"Well, it's got to be done," Ricky observed, "so we might as well do it."
Back they went along the unknown passage. This appeared to run straight out from the first chamber. But why it had been fashioned and then walled up they had no way of knowing. Ricky's torch picked out the entrance at last.
"Wait," Val cautioned her, "we had better see how the land lies before we go out in the open."
They stood listening. Save for the constant drip, drip of water, there was no sound.
"I guess it's clear," he said.
"Wonder where all the water is coming from?" Ricky shivered.
"Down from the garden. Come on, I think it's safe to have a light now."
Ricky must have been holding the torch upward when she pressed the button, for the round circle of light appeared on the supporting timbers above the door. They both looked up, fascinated for a moment. The old oak had been laid in a crisscross pattern, the best support possible in the days when the vaults had been made.
"How wet—" began Ricky.
Val cried out suddenly and struck at her. The blow sent her sprawling some three or four feet back in the passage. There might be time yet to cover her body with his own, he planned desperately, before—
The sound of slipping earth was all about them as Val flung himself toward Ricky. As he thrust blindly at her body, rolling her back farther into the tunnel, he felt the first clod strike full upon his shoulder. Ricky's complaining whimper was the last thing he heard clearly. For in the dark was the crash of breaking timber.
He was felled by a stroke across the upper arm, and then came a chill darkness in which he was utterly swallowed up.
Through the dull roaring which filled his ears Val heard a sharp call:
"Val! Val, where are you? Val!"
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 reassuringthud, thudstill 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 thethud, thudbegan 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.