She was staring at the drawings. "No, that isn't mine. But who--" Ricky got up from the end of Val's cot and went to look. Then she turned, her eyes shining with excitement. "You're trying them again! But, Val, you said you never would." "Give me that book!" he ordered grimly. But Rupert had calmly collected the trophy and was turning over the pages one by one. Val made a horrible face at Ricky and resigned himself to the inevitable. "How long have you been doing this sort of thing?" his brother asked as he turned the last page. "Ever so long," Ricky answered for Val brightly. "He used to draw whole letters of them when we were at school. There were two sets, one for good days and the other for bad." "And now," Val cut in, "suppose we just forget the whole matter. Will you please let me have that!" "Rupert, don't let him go all modest on us now," urged the demon sister. "One retiring violet in the family is enough." "And who is the violet? Your charming self?" inquired Holmes. "No." Ricky smiled pleasantly. "Only Mr. Creighton might be interested in the contents of Bluebeard's Chamber. What do you think, Rupert?" At that audacious hint, Val remembered the night of the storm and Ricky's strange attitude then. "So Rupert's the missing author," he commented lightly. "Well, well, well." 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.