The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

where Richard had so carefully concealed the last of the family treasure was never discovered.
    “The war beggared the Ralestones. Miles went north in search of better luck, and this place was allowed to molder until it was leased in 1879 to a sugar baron. In 1895 it was turned over to a family distantly connected with ours. And since then it has been leased. We have had in all four tenants.”
    “But,” Ricky broke in, “since the Luck went we have not prospered. And until it returns—”
    Rupert tapped out his pipe against one of the fire irons. “It’s nothing but a folk-tale,” he told her.
    “It isn’t!” Ricky contradicted him vehemently. “And we’ve made a good beginning anyway. We’ve come back.”
    “If Rick took the Luck with him, I don’t see how we have an earthly chance of finding it again,” Val commented.
    “It came back once before after it had gone from us,” reminded his sister. “And I think that it will again. At least I’ll hope so.”
    “Outside of the superstition, it would be well worth having. The names of the heads and heirs of the house are all engraved along the blade, from Sir Roderick on down. Seven hundred years of history scratched on steel.” Rupert stretched and then glanced at his wrist-watch. “Ten to ten, and we’ve had a long day. Who’s for bed?”
    “I am, for one.” Val swung his feet down from the couch, disturbing Satan who opened one yellow eye lazily.
    Ricky stood by the fireplace fingering the wreath of stiff flowers carved in the stone. Val took her by the arm.
    “No use wondering which one you push to reveal the treasure,” he told her.
    She looked up startled. “How did you know what I was thinking about?” she demanded.
    “My lady, your thoughts, like little white birds—”
    “Oh, go to bed, Val. When you get poetical I know you need sleep. Just the same,” she hesitated with one foot on the first tread of the stair, “I wonder.”
    CHAPTER III
    The Ralestones Entertain an Unobtrusive Visitor
    Val lay trapped in an underground cavern, chained to the floor. An unseen monster was creeping up his prostrate body. He could feel its hot breath on his cheek. With a mighty effort he broke his bonds and threw out his arms in an attempt to fight off his tormentor.
    The morning sun was warm across his pillow, making him blink. On his chest stood Satan, kneading the bedclothes with his front paws and purring gently. From the open window came a fresh, rain-washed breeze.
    Having aroused the sleeper, Satan deserted his post to hang half-way out the window, intent upon the housekeeping arrangements of several birds who had built in the hedges below. A moment later Val elbowed him aside to look out upon the morning.
    It was a fine one. Wisps of mist from the bayou still hung about the lower garden, but the sun had already dried the brick-paved paths. A bee blundered past Val’s nose, and he realized that it might be well to close the screen hanging shutter-like outside.
    From the direction of the hidden water came the faint putt-putt of a motor-boat, but inside Pirate’s Haven there was utter silence. As yet the rest of the family were not abroad. Val dropped his pajamas in a huddle by the bed and dressed leisurely, feeling very much at peace with this new world. Perhaps that was the last time he was to feel so for many days to come. He stole cautiously out of his room and tiptoed down halls and dark stairs, wanting to be alone while he discovered Pirate’s Haven for himself.
    The Long Hall looked chilly and bleak, even though patches of sunlight were fighting the usual gloom. On the hearth-stone lay a scrap of white, doubtless Ricky’s handkerchief. Val flung open the front door and stepped out on the terrace, drawing deep lungfuls of the morning air. The blossoms on the morning-glory vines which wreathed the edge of the terrace were open to the sun, and the birds sang in the bushes below. Satan streaked by and disappeared into the tangle. It was suddenly very good to be alive. The boy stretched luxuriously and started to explore, choosing the nearest of the crazy, wandering paths which began at the circle of the old carriage drive.
    Here was evidence of last night’s storm. Wisps of Spanish moss, torn from the great live-oaks of the avenue and looking like tufts of coarse gray horsehair, lay in water-logged mats here and there. And in the open places, the grass, beaten flat, was just beginning to rise again.
    A rabbit scuttled across the