“Dear Son and dear Lucy:
“If you ever receive this it will be fond love and farewell.
“I am in a city in the most inaccessible valley of the Andes. When the Spaniards conquered Peru some Incas and their subjects fled here and set up a city. I have tried for over four years to get away but there is no place where the cliffs can be climbed.
“When first I went to Quito I saved a native who was very ill. In gratitude he told me of this hidden city and even guided me to a mountain where a glimpse of it was possible; but he would not help me to enter the valley. When I said I must explore and study it he deserted me. Later I lowered myself with a rope and found a city of the old Inca sort, filled with gold.”
“In the old Inca empire, before the Spanish looted it,” Mr. Whitley broke in, “gold was so plentiful that it was used for dishes, utensils, ornaments, even for decorating their temples to the sun, which they worshipped as a god—but go on, Cliff.”
Cliff finished the letter without further interruption.
“It is a perfect treasure land. But, though there is a way in, there is no way out. The natives are kind but they took away my rope; they do not want me to escape and bring the outside world to their hidden place.
“Being anxious to explain my absence I have trained and tamed a young eagle and I am fastening this to its leg in the remote chance that it may be found when I release him.
“If so, dear son Cliff—and sister Lucy—goodbye. I am very ill and fear I may not get better.
“Your loving “Father and Brother.”
“My!” exclaimed Nicky, “but people get well, Cliff,” as he saw the depression in his chum’s face.
“The Spaniard told a different story,” Tom said, thoughtfully, “I think he wanted to get this for the Indian, to prevent you from learning where your father is. The Incas may be afraid you will try to go there.”
“I would,” Cliff said eagerly, “If——” ruefully “——I had any money and knew where it was.”
“What was the other paper?” Mr. Whitley inquired.
Cliff had forgotten it; he drew it from his pocket and read it aloud. It was in the same handwriting that the envelope bore, and was in a style totally different from his father’s letter.
Cliff, reading its clipped sentences slowly, began to tremble with excitement. When he finished and looked around he saw in the faces about him eagerness, hope, wistfulness.