“The sequel of the story is that the Spaniard forgot his promise, went off to Spain, and spent all his gold.  He was returning for the peje grande, of which he had made great boasts, but before he could get it he was killed.  Prescott, I believe, gives another version, in which he says that the Spaniard devoted a large part of his wealth to the relief of the Indians and gave large sums to the Peruvian churches.  Other stories deny that it was Mansiche who told the first secret, but that it was another Indian.  One may, I suppose, pay his money and take his choice.  But the point, as far as we are concerned in this case, is that there is still believed to be the great fish, which no one has found.  Who knows?  Perhaps, somehow, Mendoza had the secret of the peje grande?”

Kennedy paused, and I could feel the tense interest with which his delving into the crumbling past had now endowed this already fascinating case.

“And the curse?” I put in.

“About that we do not know,” he replied.  “Except that we do know that Mansiche was the great Cacique or ruler of northern Peru.  The natives are believed to have buried a far greater treasure than even that which the Spaniards carried off.  Mansiche is said to have left a curse on any native who ever divulged the whereabouts of the treasure, and the curse was also to fall on any Spaniard who might discover it.  That is all we know—­yet.  Gold was used lavishly in the temples.  That great hoard is really the Gold of the Gods.  Surely, as we have seen it so far in this case, it must be cursed.”

There was a knock on the laboratory door, and I sprang to open it, expecting to find that it was something for Kennedy.  Instead there stood one of the office boys of the Star.

“Why, hello, Tommy,” I greeted him.  “What seems to be the matter now?”

“A letter for you, Mr. Jameson,” he replied, handing over a plain envelope.  “It came just after you left.  The Boss thought it might be important—­something about that story, I guess.  Anyhow, he told me to take it up to you on my way home, sir.”

I looked at it again.  It bore simply my name and the address of the Star, not written, but, strange to say, printed in ungainly, rough characters, as though some one were either not familiar with writing English or desired to conceal his handwriting.

“Where did it come from—­and how?” I asked, as I tore the envelope open.

“I don’t know where, sir,” replied Tommy.  “A boy brought it.  Said a man uptown gave him a quarter to deliver it to you.”

I looked at the contents in blank amazement.  There was nothing in the letter except a quarter sheet of ordinary size note paper such as that used in typewritten correspondence.

Printed on it, in characters exactly like those on the outside of the envelope, were the startling words: 

“Beware the curse of Mansiche on the gold of the gods.”