But just then there was the clatter of hoofs outside, and Tom stopped in the middle of his sentence. A moment later Munson and Jack Rover entered in a state of visible excitement. Munson carried in his arms a rotund canvas sack tied at the neck. The package was not very big, but clearly of considerable weight. “Great Caesar,” exclaimed the lieutenant, without pausing to give any greeting. “A most surprising thing has happened. When I awoke this morning I found this bag lying on my table. And what do you think it contains?” As he asked the question he dumped the sack on the counter with a heavy thud. “You’ve got us guessin’,” drawled Tom. “Ten thousand, five hundred dollars in gold!” announced Munson. “Good Lord!” ejaculated the sheriff in great surprise. Munson went on: “Five thousand dollars are for the French warder at San Quentin who smuggled Pierre Luzon’s letter out of the prison, and the balance is for the syndicate.” “What syndicate?” gasped Buck, for the moment quite bewildered. “The Hidden Treasure Syndicate, of course,” exclaimed Jack Rover. “Pierre Luzon has sent each man back the hundred dollars he put up to get him out of the pen, and five thousand dollars extra to divide among us.” Buck and Tom sprang simultaneously to their feet. “Hooroosh!” shouted the sheriff. “I always knew there was no yellow streak in old Pierre Luzon.” “And I always said I liked him, too,” observed Buck. “But come into the parlor, boys,” he went on, with a cautious look around. “Let’s count the money.” “And divvy it up,” added Tom eagerly. “Gosh ‘lmighty, boys! I’ve never yet seen a thousand dollars in gold at one time outside a bank cashier’s window. And to think there’s that amount cornin’ to me right now!” “One thousand, one hundred, pal, to be exact,” laughed Jack Rover, lifting the package and following the storekeeper into the sanctum beyond the counter. The gold was in United States twenty-dollar pieces, bearing dates which showed they had been minted more than twenty years ago. “Some of Joaquin Murietta’s loot,” remarked Jack Rover, when attention had been drawn to this detail. “No,” observed Tom Baker, holding up the coin he had been examining, “Murietta wasn’t alive when this ‘ere gold piece came from the mint. This is some of Don Manuel’s stuff.” “The White Wolf!” exclaimed Munson. “Yes, the White Wolf,” continued the sheriff. “So if the White Wolf ain’t dead, as Pierre declared that night—” Tom gazed at the bedroom door as if the spectral figure might reappear—“he’s honorin’ the Frenchie’s sight draft, that’s sure.” “I see,” said Munson. “He is paying the five thousand dollars old Pierre promised in his letter if he was helped to freedom and five thousand dollars besides.” “Precisely,” Tom Baker replied. “But if the White Wolf is dead, as most folks say, then the Frenchie’s got the key to the treasure vault, all right.”