The Treasure of Hidden Valley

IT was a dear, crisp October morning. There was a shrill whistle of a locomotive, and then a westbound passenger train dashed into the depot of an Iowa town. A young man descended the car steps with an armful of luggage. He deposited his parcels on the platform, and half expectantly looked about him. Just then there was a "honk! honk!" from a huge automobile as it came to a palpitating halt, and a familiar voice called out: "Hello, Roderick, old man!" And a moment later Roderick Warfield was shaking hands with his boon friend of former college days, Whitley Adams. Both were in their early twenties, stalwart, well set up, clean-cut young fellows. Whitley's face was all aglow in the happiness of reunion. But Roderick, after the first cordial greeting, wore a graver look. He listened quietly while his comrade rambled on. "Mighty glad to receive your wire last night at the club. But what brings you home so unexpectedly? We've been hearing all sorts of glowing stories-about your being in the thick of affairs in little old New York and rolling in the shekels to beat the band."