“‘One afternoon we had drawn near unto the blue mountains, and were struck by their strangely jagged peaks—a wild sierra, whose walls gleamed with quartz crystals, betokening the presence of gold.
“‘That evening we stood entranced at the glory of the sunset falling on the jeweled rocks, touching them into splendor until cascades of fire seemed to spring from rock to rock. It was a country of strange and unearthly beauty, but over all there seemed to brood a spirit of mystery, an omen of fear.’”
As if to whet their curiosity, Mr. Livingston deliberately broke off.
Forgetting the manuscript for a moment, he next brought forth from his pocket a bit of multi-colored rope. The cord was tied at intervals with tiny knots.
“Now this,” he explained, “is an ancient Inca quipu or book.”
“Those knots were used by the Incas to record figures, weren’t they?” Ken recalled from his reading.
“Yes, Ken, for our purpose it has no practical value. The parchment translation however, might lead us to Burton Monahan. Particularly if we can find the old missionary who gave it to him originally.”
“Read some more,” urged Jack. “That stuff about ‘a spirit of mystery’ sort of intrigues me.”
Before Mr. Livingston could pick up the manuscript a waiter approached to say that he was wanted on the telephone.
“It may be Mr. Monahan calling,” the Scout leader said, getting up quickly. “Excuse me, fellows. I’ll be right back. Meanwhile, see what you can make of the writing.”