e the lock."

"Then open it before I expire of pure unsatisfied curiosity," Ricky
begged. "Go on, Rupert. Hurry."

"Oh," she said a moment later, "it's full of nothing but a lot of
books."

"What did you expect," Val asked her, "a skeleton? Do you know, I think
that Rick's ghost, or whatever influence presides over this house, has a
sense of humor. You find a room, or a trunk, or something which makes
you feel that you are on the verge of getting what you want, and then it
all fades into just nothing again. Now, by rights, that writing-desk
should have contained the secret message which would have told us where
to find a hidden passage or something. But what is in it? A couple of
pieces of lining almost completely torn from the bottom. I'll wager that
when you open those chests you'll find nothing but a brick or 'April
Fool' scrawled across the inside. This isn't true to any fiction I ever
read," he ended plaintively.

"Good Heavens!" Charity was staring down at what lay within a portfolio
she had opened.

"Don't tell me you have really found something!" Val exclaimed.

"It can't be true!" She still stared at what she held.

Ricky looked over her shoulder. "Why, it's nothing but a picture of a
bird," she observed.

"It's a genuine Audubon," Charity corrected her.

[Illustration: _"It's a genuine Audubon," Charity said._]

"What!" With little regard for manners, Rupert snatched the portfolio
from her hands. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. But you must take it in to the museum and get an expert opinion.
It's wonderful!"

"Here's another." Reverently Rupert raised the first sketch and then the
second. "Three, four, five, six," he counted.

"Was Audubon ever here?" Charity looked about the hall, a sort of awe
coloring her voice.

"He might easily have been when he lived in New Orleans. Though we have
no record of it," answered Rupert. "But these," he closed the portfolio
carefully and knotted its strings, "speak for themselves. I'll take them
to LeFleur tomorrow. We can't allow them to lie about here."

"I should hope not!" Charity eyed the portfolio wistfully. "Imagine
actually owning six of those--"

"They won't pay our bills," said Ricky, practical for once in her life.
Treasure to Ricky was not half a dozen sketches on yellowed paper but
good old-fashioned gold with a few jewels thrown in for her own private
satisfaction. The portfolio and its contents left her unmoved. Val
admitted to himself that he, too,