The accident having made his right leg
a rather accurate barometer, that crooked bone was announcing the
arrival of the coming storm with a sharp pain or two which shot
unexpectedly from knee to ankle. One such caught him as he was about to
take a step and threw him suddenly off balance.
He clutched at a dim tapestry which hung across the wall and tumbled
through a slit in the fabric--which smelled of dust and moth balls--into
a tiny alcove flanking a broad, well-cushioned window-seat under tall
windows. Below him in a riot of bushes and hedges run wild, lay the
garden. Somewhere beyond must lie Bayou Mercier leading directly to Lake
Borgne and so to the sea, the thoroughfare used by their pirate
ancestors when they brought home their spoil.
The green of the rank growth below, thought Val, seemed intensified by
the strange yellowish light. A moss-grown path led straight into the
heart of a jungle where sweet olive, banana trees, and palms grew in a
matted mass. Harrison might have done wonders for the house but he had
allowed the garden to lapse into a wilderness.
"Val!"
"Coming!" he shouted and pushed back through the curtain. He could hear
Rupert moving about the lower hall.
"Just made it in time," he said as the younger Ralestone limped down to
join him. "Hear that?"
A steady pattering outside was growing into a wild dash of wind-driven
rain.
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