“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 mat 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 me hearthstone. 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, her brother’s sword across his body. Someone had used the story of the missing Ralestone. But who today knew that the story except themselves, Charity, LeFleur, and some of the blacks.
“And you think that some mention of such an event might be found in the papers of me 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 1 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 cooperation 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, “that Jeems boy wants to see yo’all.”
“Brother 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 me 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.