"How long have you been doing this sort of thing?" his brother asked as
he turned the last page.
"Ever so long," Ricky answered for Val brightly. "He used to draw whole
letters of them when we were at school. There were two sets, one for
good days and the other for bad."
"And now," Val cut in, "suppose we just forget the whole matter. Will
you please let me have that!"
"Rupert, don't let him go all modest on us now," urged the demon sister.
"One retiring violet in the family is enough."
"And who is the violet? 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."
Charity's indulgent smile faded, and Holmes, suddenly alert, leaned
forward. Rupert stared at Val for a long moment, his face blank. Was he
going to retire behind his wall of reserve from which their venture
underground had routed him? Or was he going to remain the very human
person who had spent eight hours of every day at his brother's beck and
call for the past few weeks?
"Regular Charlie Chan, aren't you?" he asked mildly.
Val's sigh of relief was echoed by Ricky. "Thanks--so much," Val replied
humbly in the well-known manner of the famous detective Rupert had
likened him to.
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