They all turned to eye Val. He arose and bowed. "I find these compliments too overwhelming," he murmured.

Rupert grinned. "And how do you know that that remark was intended as a compliment?"

"Naturally I a.s.sumed so," his brother retorted with a dignity which disappeared as the piece of corn-bread in his hand broke in two, the larger and more liberally b.u.t.tered portion falling b.u.t.ter side down on the table. Ricky smiled in a pained sort of way as she attempted to judge from her side of the table just how much damage Val's awkwardness had done.

"If you were the graceful hostess," he informed her severely, "you would now throw your piece in the middle to show that anyone could suffer a like mishap."

Ricky changed the subject hurriedly by pa.s.sing beans to Charity.

"So Val looks like the ghost," Charity said a moment later. "Now I will have to go to town and see that portrait. Just where is it?"

Rupert shook his head. "I don't know. But it's listed in the catalogue as 'Portrait of Roderick Ralestone, Aged Eighteen.'"

"Just Val's age, then." Ricky spooned some watermelon pickles onto her plate. "But he was older than that when he left here."

"Let's see. He was born in February, 1788, which would make him fourteen when his parents died in 1802. Then he disappeared in 1814, twelve years later. Just twenty-six when he went," computed Rupert.

"A year younger than you are now," observed Ricky.

"And nine years older than yourself at this present date," Val added pleasantly. "Why this sudden interest in mathematics?"

"Oh, I don't know. Only somehow I always thought Rick was younger when he went away. I've always felt sorry for him. Wonder what happened to him afterwards?"

"According to our rival," Rupert pulled his coffee-cup before him as Letty-Lou took away their plates, "he just went quietly away, married, lived soberly, and brought up a son, who in turn fathered a son, and so on to the present day. A tame enough ending for our wild privateersman."

"I'll bet it isn't true. Rick wouldn't end like that. He probably went off down south and got mixed up in some of the revolutions they were having at the time," suggested Ricky. "He couldn't just settle down and die in bed. I could imagine him scuttling a ship but not being a quiet business man."

"He was one of Lafitte's men, wasn't he?" asked Charity. At their answering nods, she went on: "Lafitte was a business man, you know. Oh, I don't mean that forge he ran in town, but his establishment at Grande Terre. He was more smuggler than pirate, that's why he lasted so long.

Even the most respected tradesmen had dealings with him. Why, he used to post notices right in town when he held auctions at Barataria, listing what he had to sell, mostly smuggled Negroes and a few cargoes of luxuries from Europe. He was a privateer under the rules of war, but he was never a real pirate. At least, that's the belief held nowadays."

"We can't turn up our noses at pirates," laughed Ricky. "This house was built by pirate gold. We only wish--"

From the hall came a dull thump. Ricky's napkin dropped from her hand into her coffee-cup. Rupert laid down his spoon deliberately enough, but there was a certain tension in his movements. Val felt a sudden chill.

For Letty-Lou was in the kitchen, the family were in the dining-room.

There should be no one in the hall.

Rupert pushed back his chair. But Val was already half-way to the door when his brother joined him. And Ricky, suddenly sober, was at their heels.

_Zzzzzrupp!_ The slitting sound was clear as they burst into the hall.

On the fur rug by the couch lay the writing-desk. Its lid was thrown back and by it crouched Satan industriously ripping the remnants of lining from its interior. As Rupert came up, the cat drew back, his ears flattened and his lips a-snarl.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Zzzzzrupp! _Satan was industriously ripping the remnants of lining from its interior._]

"Cinders! What has he done?" demanded Charity, swooping down upon her pet. At her coming, he fled under the couch out of reach.

Rupert picked up the desk. "Nothing much," he laughed. "Just torn all that lining loose, as I had planned to do."

"What is this?" Ricky disentangled a small slip of white from the torn and musty velvet. "Why, it's a piece of paper," she answered her own question. "It must have been under the lining and Satan pulled it out with the cloth."

"Here," Rupert took it from her, "let me see it."

He scanned the faded lines of writing. "Val! Ricky!" He looked up, his face flushed with excitement. "Listen!"

"Gatty has returned from the city. The raiders calling themselves the 'Buck Boys' are headed this way. Gatty tells me that Alexander is with them, having deserted the plantation a week ago. Since his malice towards us is well known, it is easy to believe that he means us open harm. I am making my preparations accordingly. The valuables now under this roof, together with the proceeds from the last voyage of the blockade runner, _Red Bird_, I am putting in that safe place discovered by me in childhood, of which I have sometimes spoken. Remember the hint I once gave you--By Our Luck.

Having written this in haste, I shall intrust it to Gatty--"

"That's the end; the rest is gone." Rupert stared down at the sc.r.a.p of paper in his hand as if he simply could not believe in its reality.

"Richard wrote that." Ricky touched the note in awe. "But why didn't Gatty give it to Miles when he came?"

"Gatty was probably a slave who ran when the raiders appeared,"

suggested Rupert. "He or she must have hidden this in here before leaving. We'll never know."

"But we've got our clue!" cried Ricky. "We knew that the hiding-place was in this hall, and now we have the clue."

"'By our Luck.'" Rupert looked about him thoughtfully. "That's not the most helpful--"

"Rupert!" Ricky seized him by the arm. "There's only one thing in this room that will answer that. Can't you see? The niche of the Luck!"

Their gaze followed her pointing finger to the mantel above their heads.

"I believe she's right! Wait until I get the step-ladder from the kitchen." Rupert was gone almost before he had finished speaking.

"Oh, if it's only true!" Ricky stared up like one hypnotized. "Then we'll be rich and--"

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched," Val reminded her, but he didn't think that she heard him.

Then Rupert was back with the ladder. He climbed up, leaving the three of them cl.u.s.tered about its foot.

"Nothing here but two stone studs to hold the Luck in place," he said a moment later.

"Why not try pressing those?" suggested Charity.

"All right, here goes." He placed his thumbs in the corners of the niche and threw his weight upon them.

"Nothing happened." Ricky's voice was deep with disappointment.

"Look!" Val pointed over her shoulder.

To the left of the fireplace were five panels of oak, to balance those on the other side about the door of the unused drawing-room. The center one of these now gaped open, showing a dark cavity.

"It worked!" Ricky was already heading for the opening.

There behind the paneling was a shallow closet which ran the full length of the five panels. It was filled with a collection of bags and small chests, a collection which appeared much larger when it lay in the gloom within than when they dragged it out. Then, when they had time to examine it carefully, they discovered that their booty consisted of two small wooden boxes or chests, one fancifully carved and evidently intended for jewels, the other plain but locked; a felt bag and another of canvas, and a package hurriedly done up in cloth. Rupert spread it all out on the floor.

"Well," he hesitated, "where shall we begin?"

"Charity thought about how to open it, and it was her cat that found us the clue--let her choose," Val suggested.