The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

real?”
    “Well, he was very certain that the duel of the twin brothers must have occurred—Why, Mr. Ralestone,” he interrupted himself as the stick Val was about to place on the fire fell from his hands and rolled across the floor. “Mr. Ralestone, what is the matter?”
    Across his shoulder Ricky signaled her brother. And above her head Val saw Holmes’ eyes narrow shrewdly.
    “Nothing. I’m sorry I was so clumsy.” Val stooped hurriedly to hide his confusion.
    “A duel between twin brothers.” Ricky twisted one of the buttons which marched down the front of her sport dress. “That sounds exciting.”
    “They fought at midnight”—Creighton was enthralled by the story he was telling—“and one was left for dead. The scene is handled with restraint and yet you’d think that the writer had been an eye-witness. Now if such a thing ever did happen, there would have been a certain amount of talk afterwards—”
    Charity nodded. “The slaves would have spread the news,” she agreed, “and the person who found the wounded twin.”
    Val kept his eyes upon the hearth-stone. There was no stain there, but his vivid imagination painted the gray as red as it had been that cold night when the slave woman had come to find her master lying there, his brother’s sword across his body. Someone had used the story of the missing Ralestone. But who today knew that story except themselves, Charity, LeFleur, and some of the negroes?
    “And you think that some mention of such an event might be found in the papers of the family concerned?” asked Ricky. She was leaning forward in her chair, her lips parted eagerly.
    “Or in those of some other family covering the same period,” Creighton added. “I realize that this is an impertinence on my part, but I wonder if such mention might not be found among the records of your own house. From what I have seen and heard, your family was very prominent in the city affairs of that time—”
    Ricky stood up. “There is no need to ask, Mr. Creighton. My brother and I will be most willing to help you. Unfortunately, Rupert is very much immersed in a business matter just now, but Val and I will go through the papers we have.”
    Val choked down the protest that was on his lips just in time to nod agreement. For some reason Ricky wanted to keep the secret. Very well, he would play her game. At least he would until he knew what lay behind her desire for silence.
    “That is most kind.” Creighton was beaming upon both of them. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your coöperation in this matter—”
    “Not at all,” answered Ricky with that deceptive softness in her voice which masked her rising temper. “We are only too grateful to be allowed to share a secret.”
    And then her brother guessed that she did not mean Creighton’s secret but some other. She crossed the room and rang the bell for Letty-Lou to bring coffee. Something triumphant in her step added to Val’s suspicion. Like the Englishman of Kipling’s poem, Ricky was most to be feared when she grew polite. He turned in time to see her wink at Charity.
    Rupert came in just then, wet and thoroughly out of sorts, full of the evidences he had discovered on Ralestone lands bordering the swamp that strangers had been camping there. Their guests all stayed to supper, lingering long about the table to discuss Rupert’s find, so that Val did not get a chance to be alone with Ricky to demand an explanation. And for some reason she seemed to be adroitly avoiding him. He did have her almost cornered in the upper hall when Letty-Lou came up behind him and plucked at his sleeve.
    “Mistuh Val,” she said, “dat Jeems boy done wan’ to see yo’all.”
    “Bother Jeems!” Val exploded, his eyes on Ricky’s back. But he stepped into the bedroom where the swamper was still imprisoned by Lucy’s orders.
    The boy was propped up on his pillows, looking out of the window. His body was tense. At the sound of Val’s step he turned his bandaged head.
    “Can’t yo’ git me outa heah?” he demanded.
    “Why?”
    “The watah’s up!” His eyes were upon the water-filled darkness of the garden.
    “But that’s all right,” the other assured him. “Sam says that it won’t reach the top of the levee. At the worst, only the lower part of the garden will be flooded.”
    Jeems glanced at Val over his shoulder and then without a word he edged toward the side of the bed and tried to stand. But with a muffled gasp he