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Ricky's complaining whimper was the last thing he heard clearly. For in the dark was the crash of breaking timber. He was felled by a stroke across the upper arm, and then came a chill darkness in which he was utterly swallowed up. Through the dull roaring which filled his ears Val heard a sharp call: "Val! Val, where are you? Val!" He stared up into utter blackness. "Val!" "Here, Ricky!"
"Wait," Ricky's lips formed the words by his ear as Val stirred restlessly. "Someone else is coming." "I don't like the set-up in town," Red was saying peevishly. "That smooth mouthpiece is asking too darn many questions. He's always asking Simpson about things in the past. If you hadn't got Sim that family history to study, he'd been behind bars a dozen times by now."
"Got my arm free," Val told her exultantly and reached up to feel for her in the dark. His fingers closed upon coarse cloth. He pulled feebly and something rolled toward him. "What's this?" Ricky's hands slid along his arm to the thing he had found. He could hear her exploring movements. "It's some sort of a bundle. I wonder where it came from."
They retreated two inches or so and waited impatiently. With a satisfied grunt he dropped his knife and pulled the lid up. "Why, there's nothing in it!" Ricky's cry of disappointment was almost a wail. "Nothing but that old torn lining." Val was as disgusted as she. Rupert closed it again. "I'll rub this up some and put in another lining.
Keineth and Stella, with arms locked, stood together. From the other side of the group Peggy saw them. The jealousy that had been slumbering within her heart suddenly gripped her. "Well, I think I could guess who did it, all right, and I just think it's a shame for anyone like that to I dare to come to Ricky's camp!"
Your charming self?" inquired Holmes. "No." Ricky smiled pleasantly. "Only Mr. Creighton might be interested in the contents of Bluebeard's Chamber. What do you think, Rupert?" At that audacious hint, Val remembered the night of the storm and Ricky's strange attitude then. "So Rupert's the missing author," he commented lightly. "Well, well, well."
"Beans or " Ricky's hand closed upon Val's arm with a nipper-like grip. "What," her voice was a thin thread of sound, "was that?" Above the steady beat of the rain they heard a noise which was half scratch, half thud. Under Rupert's hand the latch of the cupboard clicked. "Back door," he said laconically. "Well, why don't you open it?"
What do you think, Austin? They've been studying Latude's Escape. I found the book open in Ricky's room, on the top of Jonathan Wild. Jonathan preserved the secrets of his profession, and taught them nothing. So they're going to make a Latude of Mr. Tom Bakewell. He's to be Bastille Bakewell, whether he will or no. Let them. Let the wild colt run free! We can't help them. We can only look on.
But then no one can ever be really sure of anything about you," she admitted frankly. "But why " protested Charity. "Why didn't I spread the glad tidings that I was turning out the great American novel?" he asked. "I don't know. Perhaps I am a violet no?" He looked pained at Ricky's snort of dissent. "Or perhaps I just don't like to talk about things which may never come true.
Was dis boy big like yo'all, wi' black hair an' a thin face?" "Yes." "Dat's de Jeems boy. He ain't got no mammy nor pappy. He lives jest like de wil' man wi' a li'l huntin' an' a big lot stealin'. He talk big. Say he belongs in de big house, not wi' swamp folks. But jest yo'all pay no 'tenshun to him nohow." "Val! Val Ralestone! Where are you?" Ricky's voice sounded clear through the morning air.
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