The investigating party from the levee had discovered, to their horror, the passage choked for half its length. They were making a futile and dangerous attempt to clear it when Jeems appeared on the scene. Letty-Lou having given him a garbled account of events, he had staggered from his bed in an effort to reach Rupert. He alone knew the underground ways as well as he knew the garden. And so once getting Rupert’s attention, he had set them to work in the cellar cutting through to the one passage which paralleled the foundation walls.
In the weeks which followed their emergence from the threatened tomb, the swamper had unobtrusively slipped into a place in the household. While Val was frightening his family by indulging in a bout of fever to complicate his injuries, Jeems was proving himself a tower of strength and a person to be relied upon. Even Lucy had once asked his opinion on the importance of a fire in the hall, and with that his position was assured.
Of the invaders they had heard or seen no more, although the police had visited Pirate’s Haven on two separate occasions, interviewing each and every member of the household. They had also made a halfhearted attempt to search the swamp. But for all the evidence they found, Ricky and Val might have been merely indulging in an over-vivid dream. Save that the Luck hung again in the Long Hall.
“Seriously, though,” Holmes drew Val’s thoughts out of the past, “these are worthwhile. Would you mind if I showed them to a friend of mine who might be interested?”
Since Rupert had already nodded and Charity had handed him the notebook, Val decided that he could hardly raise a protest.
“Rupert,” Charity glanced at him, “are you going to see Creighton?”
“Since all has been discovered,” he misquoted, “I suppose that that is all there is left for me to do.”
“Then you had better do it today; he’s planning to leave for the North tonight,” she informed him.
Rupert came to life. For all his pose of unconcern, he was excited. In the long days Val had been tied to the cot hurriedly set up in a corner of the drawing-room on the night of the rescue—it had been thought wiser to move him no farther than necessary—he had found again the real Rupert they had known of old. There was little he could conceal from his younger brother now—or so Val thought.
“Sam has the roadster,” Rupert said. “There’s something wrong with the brakes and I told him to take it to town and have it looked over. Goodness only knows what time he’ll be back.”
“See here, Ralestone,” Holmes looked at his wristwatch, “I’ve the car I hired here with me. Let me drive you in. Charity has to go, anyway, and see about sending off those sketches of hers.”
“Oh, but we were going together,” protested Ricky. “I have some shopping to do.”
“Very simple,” Val suggested. “Why don’t you all go?”
“But that would leave you alone.” Rupert shook his head.
“No. There’s Jeems.”
“I don’t know,” Rupert hesitated doubtfully.
“It doesn’t require more than one person to wait on me at present,” Val said firmly. “Now all of you go. But remember, I shall expect the Greeks to return bearing gifts.”
Holmes saluted. “Right you are, my hearty. Well, ladies, the chariot awaits without.”
In spite of their protests, Val at last got rid of them. Since he had a project of his own, he was only too glad to see the last of his oversolicitous family for awhile.
Val had never been able to understand why broken ribs or a fractured collarbone should chain one to the bed. And since he had recovered from his wrenched back he was eager to be up and around. In private, with the protesting assistance of Sam Two, he had made a pilgrimage across the room and back. And now it was his full intention to be seated on the terrace when the family came home.
It was Lucy of all people who aided fortune to give him his opportunity.
“Mistuh Val,” she announced from the doorway as the sound of the car pulling out of the drive signaled the departure of the city-bound party, “dem lights is out agin.”
“Another fuse gone? That’s the second this week. Who’s been playing games?” he asked.
“Dis heah no-’count!” She dragged out of hiding from behind her voluminous skirts her second son, a chocolate-brown infant who rejoiced in the name of Gustavus Adolphus and was generally called “Doff.” At that moment he was sobbing noisily and eyeing Val as if the boy were the Grand High Executioner of Tartary. “Yo’all tell Mistuh Val whats yo’ bin a-doin’!” commanded his mother, emphasizing her order with a shake.
“Ain’t done nothin’,” wailed Doff. “Sam, he give me de penny an’ say, ’Le’s hab fun.’ Den Ah puts de penny in de lil’ hole an’ den Mammy cotch me.”
“Doff seems to be the victim, Lucy,” Val observed. “Where’s Sam?”
“Ah don’ know. But I’se a-goin’ to fin’ out!” she stated with ominous determination. “How’s Ah a-goin’ to git mah ironin’ done when dere ain’t no heat fo’ de iron? Ah asks yo’ dat!”
“There are some fuses in the pantry and Jeems will put one in for you,” Val promised.
With a sniff Lucy withdrew, her fingers still hooked in the collar of her tearful son. Jeems glanced at Val as he went by the boy’s cot. And Val didn’t care for what he read into that glance. Had the swamper by any foul chance come to suspect Val’s little plan?
But it all turned out just as he had hoped. Val made that most momentous trip in four easy stages, resting on the big chair where Rupert had spent so many
