“The Luck is certainly doing its stuff,” Val observed. “Here’s the lost heir found, oil-wells bubbling at our back door—”
“I would hardly say that, Mr. Valerius,” remonstrated LeFleur.
“They may bubble yet,” the boy assured him airily. “I wouldn’t put it beyond the power of that length of Damascus steel to make wells bubble. Oil-wells bubbling,” Val continued from the point where the lawyer had interrupted him, “Rupert turning out to be the missing author—”
“What was that?” demanded Creighton sharply. He was on the point of handing a small book to Jeems.
“We just discovered that Rupert is your missing author,” Val explained. “Didn’t you guess when you heard the story of the missing Ralestone? The family went into town to tell you all about it; that’s why we were alone when the invaders arrived.”
“Mr. Ralestone my missing author! No, I didn’t guess. I was too interested in the story—but I should have! How stupid!” He looked down at the book he still held and then put it into the swamper’s hand. “Between the pages of the prayerbook, covering the offices for St. Louis’ Day, you’ll find the birth certificate for Laurent St. Jean with his right name,” he said. “That’s a very important paper to keep, young man. Mr. Ralestone my author.” He wiped his forehead with the handkerchief from his breast-pocket. “How stupid of me not to have seen at once. But why—”
“He had some idea that his stuff was no good when he didn’t hear from that agent,” Val explained, “so he just tried to forget the whole matter.”
“But I have to see him, I have to see him at once.” The New Yorker looked about him as if by willpower alone he could summon Rupert to stand before him on the terrace.
“Stay to supper and you will,” Val invited. “Ricky and I discovered him for you just as we promised we would. But then you’ve given us Rod in return. I am not,” Val told his cousin, “going to call you Rick even though there is a tradition for it. There are too many ‘Ricks’ complicating the family history now. I think you had better be ‘Rod.’ ”
“Anythin’ yo’ say,” he grinned.
For the third time that afternoon Val heard a car coming up the drive.
“If this should turn out to be the Grand Chan of Tartary or the Lama of Peru I shall not be one iota surprised,” he announced. “After what I’ve been through this afternoon, nothing, absolutely nothing, would surprise me. Oh, it’s only the family.”
With the impatience of one who has a good earthshaking shock ready to administer, he watched his wandering relatives disembark. Charity and Holmes were still with them and a sort of aura of disappointment hung over the group. Then Ricky looked up and with a cry of joy came up the terrace steps in what seemed like a single leap.
“Oh, Mr. Creighton,” she began when Val lifted his hand. “Let me tell it,” he begged, “I’ve been waiting for a chance like this for years.” Ricky was obediently silent, thinking that he wished to break the mystery of the author. But Jeems and LeFleur understood that it was to them Val appealed.
“Val, what are you doing out of bed?” was Rupert’s first question.
“Saving the old homestead while you went joyriding. We had visitors this afternoon.”
“Visitors? Who?” he began when his brother silenced him with a frown.
“Oh, let’s not go into that now,” Val said hurriedly. “There is something more important to be discussed. Since you left this afternoon we have had an addition to the family.”
“An addition to the family,” puzzled Ricky. “What do you mean?”
“Rick Ralestone has come back,” Val announced.
“Val, hadn’t you better go back to bed?” suggested his sister.
“Not now,” he grinned at her. “I haven’t lost my mind yet, nor am I raving. Ladies and gentlemen,” Val prepared to echo Creighton’s speech of an hour before, “permit me to introduce Roderick St. Jean de Roche Ralestone, the missing heir!”
With an impish grin Val had never seen on his face before, Jeems clicked his heels in a creditable imitation of a court bow.
XVIII
Rupert Brings Home His Marchioness
“Such a nice domestic scene,” Val observed.
Ricky looked up from the bowl into which she was shelling peas. “Now just what do you mean by that?” she asked suspiciously.
“Nothing, nothing at all. It’s getting so I can’t say a word around here without you suspecting some sort of a catch in it,” her brother complained. He shifted the drawing-board Rod had fixed up for him an inch or two. Although Val’s arm was at last out of the sling, he was not supposed to use it unless absolutely necessary.
“Well, after that afternoon when you made the missing heir appear like a rabbit out of a hat—” began his sister.
“Rod,” Val called down to where their cousin was busied over the stretching of the new badminton net, “did you hear that? She referred to you as a rabbit—deliberately.”
“Hmm,” Rod answered in absentminded fashion. “That cat of Miss Charity’s just walked away with one of those feathered things yo’ bat ’round.”
“Let us hope that he returns it in time,” Val said; “otherwise I can prophesy that you are going to spend the rest of the morning crawling around under hedges and things hunting for him and it. Ricky will not be balked. If she says that we are going to play badminton—well, we are going to play badminton.”
“I think that you might help too.” Ricky attacked a fresh pod viciously as their cousin came up on the terrace. He stopped for a moment by Ricky’s chair, long enough to gather the pods together on the paper she had put down for them, piling them up in a more orderly fashion than she was capable of.
“Doing what?” Val inquired. “You know that Lucy has chased everyone out of the house. And now that Rod
