"So you're down--"
"But not out!" Ricky hastened to assure her. "But we might be that." And
then and there she told their tenant of the rival claimant.
Charity listened closely, absent-mindedly sucking the wooden shaft of
one of her brushes. When Ricky had done, she nodded.
"Nice mess you've dropped into. But I think that your lawyer has the
right idea. This is a neat piece of blackmail and your claimant will
disappear into thin air if you have a few concrete facts to face him
down with. Are you sure you've looked through all the family papers? No
hiding-places or safes--"
"One," said Ricky calmly, "but we don't know where that is. In the Civil
War days, after General Butler took over New Orleans, some family
possessions were hidden somewhere in the Long Hall, but we don't know
where. The secret was lost when Richard Ralestone was shot by Yankee
raiders."
"Is he the ghost?" asked Charity.
"No. You ask that as if you know something," Val observed.
"Nothing but talk. There have been lights seen, white ones. And a while
back my maid Rose left because she saw something in the garden one
night."
"Jeems, probably," the boy commented. "He seems to like the place."
"No, not Jeems. He was sitting right on that railing when we both heard
Rose scream."
"Val, the handkerchief!" Ricky's hand arose to her buttoned pocket.
"Then there _was_ someone inside the house that night.
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