The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

or something which makes you feel that you are on the verge of getting what you want, and then it all fades into just nothing again. Now, by rights, that writing-desk should have contained the secret message which would have told us where to find a hidden passage or something. But what is in it? A couple of pieces of lining almost completely torn from the bottom. I’ll wager that when you open those chests you’ll find nothing but a brick or ‘April Fool’ scrawled across the inside. This isn’t true to any fiction I ever read,” he ended plaintively.
    “Good Heavens!” Charity was staring down at what lay within a portfolio she had opened.
    “Don’t tell me you have really found something!” Val exclaimed.
    “It can’t be true!” She still stared at what she held.
    Ricky looked over her shoulder. “Why, it’s nothing but a picture of a bird,” she observed.
    “It’s a genuine Audubon,” Charity corrected her.
    “What!” With little regard for manners, Rupert snatched the portfolio from her hands. “Are you sure?”
    “Yes. But you must take it in to the museum and get an expert opinion. It’s wonderful!”
    “Here’s another.” Reverently Rupert raised the first sketch and then the second. “Three, four, five, six,” he counted.
    “Was Audubon ever here?” Charity looked about the hall, a sort of awe coloring her voice.
    “He might easily have been when he lived in New Orleans. Though we have no record of it,” answered Rupert. “But these,” he closed the portfolio carefully and knotted its strings, “speak for themselves. I’ll take them to LeFleur tomorrow. We can’t allow them to lie about here.”
    “I should hope not!” Charity eyed the portfolio wistfully. “Imagine actually owning six of those—”
    “They won’t pay our bills,” said Ricky, practical for once in her life. Treasure to Ricky was not half a dozen sketches on yellowed paper but good old-fashioned gold with a few jewels thrown in for her own private satisfaction. The portfolio and its contents left her unmoved. Val admitted to himself that he, too, was disappointed. After all—well, treasure should be treasure.
    Rupert carried the portfolio into his bedroom and locked it in one of his mysterious brief-cases which had somehow found its way upstairs.
    The two chests they moved out farther into the hall and the trunk was placed back against the wall, ready for further investigation.
    “Mistuh Ralestone, suh,” Letty-Lou, standing half-way up the back stairs, addressed Rupert, “lunch am on de table. Effen yo’all doan come now, de eatments will be spiled.”
    “All right,” he answered.
    “Letty-Lou,” called Ricky, “put on another plate. Miss Charity is staying to lunch.”
    “Dat’s all ri’, Miss ’Chanda. I’se done done dat. Yo’all comin’ now?”
    “You see how we are bullied,” Ricky appealed to Charity. “Of course you’re going to stay,” she swept aside the other’s protests. “What’s food for, if not to feed your friends? Val, go wash up; your hands are frightful. I don’t care if you did wash once; go and—”
    “This is her little-mother-of-the-family mood,” her younger brother explained to Charity. “It wears off after a while if you just don’t notice it. But I will wash though,” he looked at his hands, “I seem to need it.”
    “And don’t use the guest towels,” Ricky called after him. “You know that they’re only to look at.”
    When Val emerged from the bathroom he found the hall deserted. Sounds from below suggested that his family had basely left him for food. He started along the passage. Not far from the stairs was the writing-desk where Rupert had left it. Val picked it up, thinking that he might as well take it along down with him.
    CHAPTER VII
    By Our Luck!
    Depositing the deskon the seat of one of the hall chairs, Val started toward the dining-room, a grim hole which Lucy had calmly forced the family to use but which they all cordially disliked. Its paneled walls, crystal-hung chandelier, marble-fronted fireplace, and inlaid floor gave it the appearance of one of the less cozy rooms in a small palace. There were also two tasteful portraits of dead ducks which had been added as a finishing touch by some tenant during the eighties and which still remained upon the walls to Ricky’s unholy joy.
    But the long table, the high-backed chairs, the side serving-table, and the two tall cabinets of china were fine enough pieces if one cared