LITMIR.BIZ

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be here a month from now.” It was just possible—Val paused, half in, half out of, his shirt. Could last night’s adventure have had anything to do with that threat? Two or three episodes of that sort might unsettle the strongest nerves and drive the occupants from a house where such a shadow walked.

      Something else nagged at the boy’s memory. Slowly he traced back over the events of the day before, from the moment when he had watched that queer swamp car crawl downstream. After the visit of the rival, Lucy had come to stay. And then Ricky had started for Charity’s while he had gone down to the bayou where he met Jeems. That was it. Jeems!

      When Ricky had hinted that he knew more of the swamp than the Ralestones did, why had he been so quick to resent that remark? Could it be because he understood her to mean that he knew more of Pirate’s Haven than they did?

      And the thing in the Long Hall last night had known of some exit in the wall that the Ralestones did not know of. It had faded into the base of the staircase. And yet, when Val had gone over the paneling there inch by inch, he had gained nothing but sore finger tips.

      He tucked his shirt under his belt and looked down to see if Sam Junior had polished his boots as Lucy had ordered her son to do. Save for a trace of mud by the right heel, they had the proper mirror-like surface.

      “Mistuh Val,” Lucy’s penetrating voice made him start guiltily, “is yo’ or is yo’ not comin’ to brekfas’?”

      “I am,” he answered and started downstairs at his swiftest pace.

      The new ruler of their household was standing at the foot of the stairs, her knuckles resting on her broad hips. She eyed the boy sternly. Lucy eyed one, Val thought, much as a Scotch nurse Ricky and he had once had. They had never dared question any of Annie’s decrees, and one look from her had been enough to reduce them to instant order. Lucy’s eye had the same power. And now as she herded Val into the dining-room he felt like a six-year-old with an uneasy conscience.

      Rupert and Ricky were already seated and eating. That is, Ricky was eating, but Rupert was reading his morning mail.

      “Yo’all sits down,” said Lucy firmly, “an’ yo’all eats what’s on youah plate. Yo’all ain’ much fattah nor a jay-bird.”

      “I don’t see why she keeps comparing me to a living skeleton all the time,” Val complained as she departed kitchenward.

      “She told Letty-Lou yesterday,” supplied Ricky through a mouthful of popover, “that you are ‘peaked lookin’.”

      “Why doesn’t she start in on Rupert? He needs another ten pounds or so.” Val reached for the butter. “And he hasn’t got a very good color, either.” Val surveyed his brother professionally. “Doesn’t get outdoors enough.”

      “No,” Ricky’s voice sounded aggrieved, “he’s too busy having secrets—”

      “Hmm,” Rupert murmured, more interested in his letter than in the conversation.

      “The trouble is that we are not Chinese bandits, Malay pirates, or Arab freebooters. We don’t possess color, life, enough—enough—”

      “Sugar,” Rupert interrupted Val, pushing his coffee-cup in the general direction of Ricky without raising his eyes from the page in his hand. She giggled.

      “So that’s what we lack. Well, now we know. How much sugar should we have, Rupert? Rupert—Mr. Rupert Ralestone—Mr. Rupert Ralestone of Pirate’s Haven!” Her voice grew louder and shriller until he did lay down his reading matter and really looked at them for the first time.

      “What do you want?”

      “A little attention,” answered Ricky sweetly. “We aren’t Chinese, Arabs, or Malays, but we are kind of nice to know, aren’t we, Val? If you’d only come out of your subconscious, or wherever you are most of the time, you’d find that out without being told.”

      Rupert laughed and pushed away his letters. “Sorry. I picked up the bad habit of reading at breakfast when I didn’t have my table brightened by your presence. I know,” he became serious, “that I haven’t been much of a family man. But there are reasons—”

      “Which, of course, you can not tell us,” flashed Ricky.

      His face lengthened ruefully. He pulled at his tie with an embarrassed frown. “Not yet, anyway. I—” He fumbled with his napkin. “Oh, well, let me see how it comes out first.”

      Ricky opened her eyes to their widest extent and leaned forward, every inch of her expressing awe. “Rupert, don’t tell me that you are an inventor!” she cried.

      “Now I know that we’ll end in the poorhouse,” Val observed.

      Rupert had recovered his composure. “‘I yam what I yam,’” he quoted.

      “Very well. Keep it to yourself then,” pouted Ricky. “We can have secrets too.”

      “I don’t doubt it.” He glanced at Val. “Unfortunately you always tell them. See any more bogies last night, Val? Did a big, black, formless something reach out from under the bed and clutch at you?”

      But his brother refused to be drawn. “No, but when it does I’ll sic it onto you. A big, black, formless something is just what you need. And I’ll—”

      “Am I interrupting?” Charity stood in the door. “Goodness! Haven’t you finished breakfast yet? Do you people know that it is almost ten?”

      “Madam, we have banished time.” Rupert drew out the chair at his left. “Will you favor us with your company?”

      “I thought you were going to be busy today,” said Ricky as she rang for Letty-Lou and a fresh cup of coffee for their guest.

      “So did I,” sighed Charity. “And I should be. I’ve got this order, you know, and now I can’t get any models. Why there should be a sudden dearth of them right now, I can’t imagine. I thought I could use Jeems again, but somehow he isn’t the type.” She raised her cup to her lips.

      “Are you doing story illustrations?” asked Rupert, more alive now than he had been all morning.

      “Yes. A historical thriller for a magazine. They want a full-page cut for the first chapter and a half-page to illustrate the most exciting scene. Then there’re innumerable smaller ones. But the two large ones are what I’m worrying about. I like to get the important stuff finished first, and now I simply can’t get models who are the right types.”

      “What’s the story about?” demanded Ricky.

      “It’s laid in Haiti during the French invasion led by Napoleon’s brother-in-law, the one who married Pauline. All voodoo and aristocratic young hero and beautiful maiden pursued by an officer of the black rebels. And,” she almost wailed, “here I am with the clothes spread all over my bed—the right costumes, you know—with no one to wear them. I went over to the Corners this morning and called Johnson—he runs a registration office for models—but he couldn’t promise me anyone.” She bit absent-mindedly into a round spiced roll Ricky had placed before her.

      “Wait!” She laid down the roll in a preoccupied fashion and stared across the table. “Val, stand up.”

      Wondering, he pushed back his chair and arose obediently.

      “Turn your head a little more to the right,” Charity ordered. “There, that’s it! Now try to look as if there were something all ready to spring at you from that corner over there.”

      For one angry moment he thought that she had been told of what had happened the night before and was baiting him, as the others had done. But a sidewise glance showed him that her interest lay elsewhere. So he screwed up his features into what he fondly hoped was a grim and deadly smile.

      “For goodness sake, don’t look as if you had eaten green apples,” Ricky shot at him. “Just put on that face you wear when I show you a new hat. No, not that sneering one;

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