"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 to question my story." He smiled reminiscently. "Judge Henry Lane had to see every line of written proof this morning before he would admit that the tale might be true."
"But where did you find this 'proof'?" Val demanded as Jeems pulled up chairs for the lawyer and Creighton.
"In that chest of Jeems' which you brought out of the swamp on the night of the storm," he replied promptly. "And, young man," he said to Jeems indignantly, "if you had let me see those papers of yours a month ago, instead of waiting until last week, we would have had this matter cleared up then—"
"But then we might never have found the Luck!" Val protested.
"Humph, that piece of steel is historically interesting, no doubt," conceded Creighton, "but hardly worth risking your life for."
"No? Well, you heard what that man said just now—that we had found our luck. It's so; we have had good luck since. But I'm sorry; do get on with the story of Jeems' box."
"Ah gave it to him Monday," said the swamper slowly. "But, Mistuh Creighton, there weren't nothin' in that chest but some books full of handwritin'—most in some funny foreign stuff—an' a French prayer-book."