The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

terrace. For a moment his followers hesitated uncertainly and then they were after him. Back into their sinister beetle-car went the invaders and then they were gone down the drive, leaving the Ralestones in possession of the victorious field.
    “Now,” Val said plaintively, “will somebody please tell me just what this is all about? Who is Jeems, really?”
    “Just who I said,” answered Creighton promptly. “Roderick St. Jean Ralestone, the only descendant of your pirate ancestor.”
    “Bettah tell us the story,” suggested the swamper quietly. “Yo’ ain’t foolin’, are yo’, Mistuh Creighton?”
    The New Yorker shook his head. “No, I’m not fooling. But you are not the first one to question my story.” He smiled reminiscently. “Judge Henry Lane had to see every line of written proof this morning before he would admit that the tale might be true.”
    “But where did you find this ‘proof’?” Val demanded as Jeems pulled up chairs for the lawyer and Creighton.
    “In that chest of Jeems’ which you brought out of the swamp on the night of the storm,” he replied promptly. “And, young man,” he said to Jeems indignantly, “if you had let me see those papers of yours a month ago, instead of waiting until last week, we would have had this matter cleared up then—”
    “But then we might never have found the Luck!” Val protested.
    “Humph, that piece of steel is historically interesting, no doubt,” conceded Creighton, “but hardly worth risking your life for.”
    “No? Well, you heard what that man said just now—that we had found our luck. It’s so; we have had good luck since. But I’m sorry; do get on with the story of Jeems’ box.”
    “Ah gave it to him Monday,” said the swamper slowly. “But, Mistuh Creighton, there weren’t nothin’ in that chest but some books full of handwritin’—most in some funny foreign stuff—an’ a French prayer-book.”
    “Plenty to establish your right to the name and a quarter interest in the estate,” snapped LeFleur. Val thought the lawyer rather resented the fact that it was Creighton and not he who had found the way out of their difficulties.
    “Two of those books were ships’ logs, kept in the fashion of diaries, partly in Latin,” explained the New Yorker. “The log of the ship Annette Marie for the years 1814 and 1815 gave us what we wanted. The master was Captain Roderick Ralestone, although he concealed his name in a sort of an anagram. After his quarrel with his brother he apparently went to Lafitte and purchased the ship which he had once commanded for the smuggler. Then he sailed off into the Gulf to become a free-trader, with his headquarters first in Georgetown, British Guiana, then in Dutch Curaçao, and finally at Port-au-Prince, Haiti. It was there that he met and fell in love with Valerie St. Jean de Roche, the only living child and heir of the Comte de Roche, who had survived the Terror of the French Revolution only to fall victim to the rebel slaves on his Haitian estates.
    “Horribly injured, the Comte de Roche had been saved from death by the devotion of his daughter and her nurse, a free woman of color. These two women not only saved his life, but managed to keep him and themselves alive through the dark years which followed the horrors of the black uprising and the overthrow of the French rule. The courage of that lady of France must have been very great. But she was near to the end of her strength when she met Roderick Ralestone.
    “Against the direct orders of the black despots in the land, young Ralestone got de Roche and his daughter away on his ship. Her maid chose to remain among her people. Ralestone hints that she was a sort of priestess of Voodoo and that it had been her dark powers which had protected the lives of those she loved.
    “Ralestone took the refugees to Curaçao, but de Roche did not survive. He lived only long enough to see his daughter married to her rescuer and to persuade his son-in-law to legally adopt the name of St. Jean de Roche, that an old and honored family might not be forgotten. The Comte’s only son had been killed by the blacks.
    “So it was as Roderick St. Jean—he dropped the ‘de Roche’ in time—that he returned here in 1830. His wife was dead, worn out while yet in her youth by the horrors of her girlhood. But Roderick brought with him a ten-year-old boy who had the right to both the name of Ralestone and that of de Roche.
    “Roderick himself was