Part 13 (2/2)

”And just what is a Sergnoret piece?”

”A collector's item nowadays. Francois Sergnoret was one of the greatest cabinet-makers of New Orleans. See that 'S'--that's the way he always signed his work.”

”Treasure trove!” cried Ricky. ”I wonder how much it's worth?”

”Exactly nothing to us.” Rupert was running his hands across the mahogany. ”We couldn't sell anything from this house until the t.i.tle is cleared.”

As Val moved around to the opposite side to see better, his foot struck against something on the floor. He stooped and picked up a box with a slanting cover, the whole black and smooth with age and the rubbing of countless hands.

”What's this?” He had crossed to the door and was examining his find in the light.

Rupert's hand fell upon his shoulder. ”Val, be careful of that. Charity, he's got something here!” He pulled her up beside him, not noting in his excitement that he had broken out of the formal sh.e.l.l which seemed to wall him in whenever she was around.

”A Bible box! And an authentic one, too!” She drew her fingers down the slope of the lid.

”And just what is it?” Val asked for the second time.

”These boxes were used in the seventeenth century for writing-desks and later to keep the large family Bibles in. But this is the first one I've ever seen outside of a museum. What's this on the lid?” She traced a worn outline. Val studied the design.

”Why, it's Joe! You know, that grinning skull we have stuck up all over the place to bolster up our superiority complex. That proves that this is ours, all right.”

”Perhaps--” Ricky's eyes were round with excitement, ”perhaps it belonged to Pirate d.i.c.k himself!”

”Perhaps it did,” her younger brother agreed.

”Lift the lid.” She was almost hopping on one foot in her impatience.

”Let's see what's inside.”

”No gold or jewels, I'll wager. How do you get the thing undone?”

”Here, let me try.” Rupert took it from Val's hands and put it down on one of the chests, squatting on the floor before it. With the smallest blade of his penknife he delicately probed the fastening sunken in the wood.

”I could do a faster job,” he remarked, ”if you didn't all breathe down the back of my neck.” 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. This is too good a piece to hide away up here,” and he put it carefully aside at the end of the hall.

Their investigations yielded nothing more except great quant.i.ties of dust, a mummified rat which even Satan refused to sniff at, and a large collection of spider webs. Having swept out the room, they went to wash their hands before unpacking the well-wrapped boxes.

When their swathing canvas and sacking was thrown aside, the boxes stood revealed as stout chests banded with iron. Charity paused before one.

”This is a marriage chest, late seventeenth century, I would judge. Look there, under that carved leaf--isn't that a date?”

”Sixteen hundred ninety-three,” Rupert deciphered. ”That crest above it looks familiar. I know, it belonged to that French lady who married our pirate ancestor.”

”The first Lady Richanda!” Ricky touched the chest lovingly. ”Then this is mine, Rupert. Can't it be mine?” she coaxed.

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