“One of our better efforts.” He coughed in mock modesty. “Ricky saved the day with alarms and excursions without. Rupert probably told you that.”
“Yes, he can be persuaded to talk at times. Is he always so silent?”
“Nowadays, yes,” he answered slowly. “But when we were younger—You know,” Val turned toward her suddenly, his brown face serious to a degree, “it isn’t fair to separate the members of a family. To put one here and one there and the third somewhere else. I was twelve when Father died, and Ricky was eleven. They sent her off to Great-aunt Rogers because Uncle Fleming, who took me, didn’t care for a girl—”
“And Rupert?”
“Rupert—well, he was grown, he could arrange his own life; so he just went away. We got a letter now and then, or a post-card. There was money enough to send us to expensive schools and dress us well. It was two years before I really saw Ricky again. You can’t call short visits on Sunday afternoons seeing anyone.
“Then Uncle Fleming died and I was simply parked at Great-aunt Rogers’. She”—Val was remembering things, a bitter look about his mouth—“didn’t care for boys. In September I was sent to a military academy. I needed discipline, it seemed. And Ricky was sent to Miss Somebody’s-on-the-Hudson. Rupert was in China then. I got a letter from him that fall. He was about to join some expedition heading into the Gobi.
“Ricky came down to the Christmas hop at the academy, then Aunt Rogers took her abroad. She went to school in Switzerland a year. I passed from school to summer camp and then back to school. Ricky sent me some carvings for Christmas—they arrived three days late.”
He stared up at the stone mantel. “Kids feel things a lot more than they’re given credit for. Ricky sent me a letter with some tear stains between the lines when Aunt Rogers decided to stay another year. And that was the year I earned the reputation of being a ‘hard case.’
“Then Ricky cabled me that she was coming home. I walked out of school the same morning. I didn’t even tell anyone where I was going. Because I had money enough, I thought I would fly. And that, dear lady, is the end of this very sad tale.” He grinned one-sidedly down at her.
“It was then that—that—”
“I was smashed up? Yes. And Rupert came home without warning to find things very messy. I was in the hospital when I should have been in some corrective institution, as Aunt Rogers so often told me during those days. Ricky was also in disgrace for speaking her mind, as she does now and then. To make it even more interesting, our guardian had been amusing himself by buying oil stock with our capital. Unfortunately, oil did not exist in the wells we owned. Yes, Rupert had every right to be anything but pleased with the affairs of the Ralestones.
“He swept us off here where we are still under observation, I believe.”
“Then you don’t like it here?”
“Like it? Madam, ‘like’ is a very pallid word. What if you were offered everything you ever wished for, all tied up in pink ribbons and laid on your door-step? What would your reaction be?”
“So,” she was staring into the fire, “that’s the way of it?”
“Yes. Or it would be if—“ He stooped to reach for another piece of wood. The fire was threatening to the again.
“What is the flaw in the masterpiece?” she asked quietly.
“Rupert. He’s changed. In the old days he was one of us; now he’s a stranger. We’re amusing to have around, someone to look after, but I have a feeling that to him we don’t really exist. We aren’t real—“ Val floundered trying to express that strange, walled-off emotion which so often held him in this grown-up brother’s presence. “Things like this ‘Bluebeard’s Chamber’ of his—that isn’t like the Rupert we knew.”
“Did you ever think that he might be shy, too?” she asked. “He left two children and came home to find two distrustful adults. Give him his chance—”
“Charity!” Ricky ran lightly downstairs. “Why didn’t Val tell me you had come?”
“I just dropped in to inquire concerning your patient.”
“He’s better-tempered than Val,” declared Ricky shamelessly. “You’ll stay to dinner of course. We’re having some sort of crab dish that Lucy seems to think her best effort. Rupert will be back by then, I’m sure; he’s out somewhere with Sam. There’s been some trouble about trespassers on the swamp lands. Goodness, won’t this rain ever stop?”
As if in answer to her question, there came a great gust of wind and rain against the door, a blast which shook the oak, thick and solid as it was. And then came the thunder of the knocker which Letty-Lou had polished into shining life only the day before.
Val opened the door to find Mr. Creighton and Mr. Holmes huddled on the mat. They came in with an eagerness which was only surpassed by Satan, wet and displaying cold anger towards his mistress, whom he passed with a disdainful flirt of his tail as he headed for that deceptive fire.
“You, again,” observed Charity resignedly as Sam Two was summoned and sent away again draped with wet coats and drenched hats.
“Man”—Holmes argued with Satan for the possession of the hearthstone—“when it rains in this country, it rains. A branch of your creek down there is almost over the road—”
“Bayou, not creek,” corrected Charity acidly. Lately she had shown a marked preference for Holmes’ absence rather than his company.
“I stand corrected,” he laughed; “a branch of your bayou.”
“If you found it so unpleasant, why did you—“ began Charity, and then she flushed as if she had suddenly realized that that speech was too crude even for her recent attitude.
“Why did we come?” Holmes’ crooked eyebrow slid upward as his face registered mock reproof. “My, my, what a warm welcome, my dear.” He shook his head and Charity laughed in spite of herself.
“Don’t mind my bearishness,” she made half apology. “You know what pleasant moods I fall into while working. And this rain is depressing.”
“But Miss Biglow is right.” Creighton smiled his rare, shy smile. Brusque and impatient as he was when on business bent, he was awkwardly uncomfortable in ordinary company. The man, Val sometimes thought privately, lived, ate, slept books. Save when they were the subject of conversation, he was as out of his element as a coal-miner at the ballet. “We should explain the reason for this—this rather abrupt call.” He fingered his brief-case, which he still clutched, nervously.
“Down to business already.” Holmes seated himself on the arm of Ricky’s chair. “Very well, out with it.”
Creighton smiled again, laid the case across his knees, and looked straight at Ricky. For some reason he talked to her, as if she above all others must be firmly convinced of the importance of his mission.
“It is a very queer story. Miss Ralestone, a very queer—”
“Said me mariner to the wedding guest.” Holmes snapped his fingers at Satan, who contemptuously ignored him. “Or am I thinking of the Whiting who talked to the Snail?”
“Perhaps I had better begin at the beginning,” continued Creighton, frowning at Holmes who refused to be so suppressed.
“Why be so dramatic about it, old man? It’s very simple. Miss Ricky. Creighton has lost an author and he wants you to help find him.”
When Ricky’s eyes involuntarily swept about the room, Val joined in the laughter. “No, it isn’t as easy as all that, I’m afraid.” Creighton had lost his nervous shyness. “But what Holmes says is true. I have lost an author and do hope mat you can help me locate the missing gentleman—or lady. Two months ago an agent sent a manuscript to our office for reading. It wasn’t complete, but he thought it was well worth our attention. It was.
“Although there were only five chapters finished, the rest being but synopsis and elaborated scenes, we knew that we had something—something big. We delayed reporting upon it until Mr. Brewster—our senior partner—returned from Europe. Mr. Brewster has the final decision on all manuscripts; he was as well pleased with this offering as we were. Frankly, we saw possibilities of another great success such as those other long historical novels which have been so popular during the past few years.
“Queerly enough, the author’s name was not upon the papers sent us by the agent—that is, his proper name; there was a pen-name. And when we applied to Mr. Lever, the agent, we received a most unpleasant shock. The author’s real name, which had been given in the covering letter mailed with the manuscript to Mr. Lever, had most strangely disappeared, due to some carelessness in his office.
“Now we have an extremely promising book and no author—”