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.
"Then we are right?" asked Ricky.
Rupert's eyebrows slid upward. "You seemed too sure to be in doubt," he commented.
"Well, I was sure at times. But then no one can ever be really sure of anything about you," she admitted frankly.
"But why—" protested Charity.
"Why didn't I spread the glad tidings that I was turning out the great American novel?" he asked. "I don't know. Perhaps I am a violet—no?" He looked pained at Ricky's snort of dissent. "Or perhaps I just don't like to talk about things which may never come true. When I didn't hear from Lever, I thought that my worst forebodings were realized and that my scribbling was worthless. But you know," he paused to fill his pipe, "writing is more or less like the drug habit. I've told stories all my life, and I found myself tied to my typewriter in spite of my disappointment. As for talking about it—well, how much has Val ever said about these?" He ruffled the pages of the note-book provokingly.
"Nothing. And you would never have seen those if I could have prevented it," his brother replied. "Those are for my private satisfaction only."
"Two geniuses in one family." Ricky rolled her eyes heavenward. "This is almost too, too much!"