“You are a descendant of Roderick Ralestone?” asked Leieur.
“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
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. Valeric 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 LePleur, “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 tile 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 Mane 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 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 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.
“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 mat 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.