't yuh been doin' our thinkin'
for us all along? We can't grab the land and run. We gotta camp right
here if we're gonna git anything. And how are we gonna--"

"Simpson!" the Boss's voice was sharp. "Be quiet! You are becoming
wearisome. Gentlemen," he bowed slightly toward LeFleur and Creighton,
"one cannot fight bad luck, and this time Fate smiles upon you. It was a
good idea if it had worked," he added musingly. "Young Ralestone seems
to have gathered all the aces into his hand. Even," the drawl became a
sneer, "even the guardianship of the missing heir, which will mean a
nice sum in the bank for the happy guardian, if all reports are true."

"What _did_ you want here?" Val asked for the last time.

The Boss smiled. "I shall leave that mystery for you to unravel, my
wounded hero. It should occupy an idle moment or two. Doubtless all will
be made clear in the fullness of time. As for you," he turned upon
LeFleur, "there is no use in your entertaining any foolish idea of
calling the police. For our invasion today we have a court order;
unhappily it is no longer of use. But we did come here in good faith, as
we are prepared to prove. And all other evidence of any lawbreaking upon
our part rests, I believe, upon the word of two boys, evidence which
might be twisted by a clever lawyer. You may prosecute Simpson for
perjury, of course. But I think that Simpson will not be in this part of
the country long. Yes," he looked about him once more at garden and
house, "it was a very good idea. A pity it did not work. Well, I must be
going before I begin to curse my luck. When a man does that, he
sometimes loses it. You must have found yours, I think."

"We did," Val answered, but the Boss did not hear him, for he had turned
on his heel and was striding down the terrace. For a moment his
followers hesitated uncertainly and then they were after him. Back into
their sinister beetle-car went the invaders and then they were gone down
the drive, leaving the Ralestones in possession of the victorious field.

"Now," Val said plaintively, "will somebody please tell me just what
this is all about? Who is Jeems, really?"

"Just who I said," answered Creighton promptly. "Roderick St. Jean
Ralestone, the only descendant of your pirate ancestor."

"Bettah tell us the story," suggested the swamper quietly. "Yo' ain't
foolin', are yo', Mistuh Creighton?"

The New Yorker shook his head. "No, I'm not fooling. But you are not the
first one