"The war beggared the Ralestones. Miles went north in search of better luck, and this place was allowed to molder until it was leased in 1879 to a sugar baron. In 1895 it was turned over to a family distantly connected with ours. And since then it has been leased. We have had in all four tenants."
"But," Ricky broke in, "since the Luck went we have not prospered. And until it returns—"
Rupert tapped out his pipe against one of the fire irons. "It's nothing but a folk-tale," he told her.
"It isn't!" Ricky contradicted him vehemently. "And we've made a good beginning anyway. We've come back."
"If Rick took the Luck with him, I don't see how we have an earthly chance of finding it again," Val commented.
"It came back once before after it had gone from us," reminded his sister. "And I think that it will again. At least I'll hope so."
"Outside of the superstition, it would be well worth having. The names of the heads and heirs of the house are all engraved along the blade, from Sir Roderick on down. Seven hundred years of history scratched on steel." Rupert stretched and then glanced at his wrist-watch. "Ten to ten, and we've had a long day. Who's for bed?"
"I am, for one." Val swung his feet down from the couch, disturbing Satan who opened one yellow eye lazily.
Ricky stood by the fireplace fingering the wreath of stiff flowers carved in the stone. Val took her by the arm.
"No use wondering which one you push to reveal the treasure," he told her.