“At any rate, the bishop was supposed to have regretted the harshness. In his old age he worked to improve the conditions of the Indians. Unfortunately people often pay more attention to wickedness than to repentance. It is the bloodstained bishop that people remember today, and not the kindly reformer.”

The boys were silent for a moment, thinking of the long-ago events and wondering how they might have supplied the motive for the recent crime of kidnapping.

“If that book really is the missing diary of Bishop Jiminez, would it be very valuable?” Jupe asked at last.

Dr. Gonzaga looked doubtful. “Valuable? Well, that’s one of those relative terms. It would be of interest to scholars and historians, but it wouldn’t be a fabulous find — not like a draft of the Magna Charta or a letter from Queen Isabella to Christopher Columbus, for example. Nobody would pay a fortune for it.”

Dr. Gonzaga tucked the book under his arm. “But to a scholar?” he said. “Fascinating! I can’t wait to sit down with this and start working on a translation and —”

“Oh, no!” cried Bob.

“There isn’t time!” said Pete.

“I beg your pardon?” Dr. Gonzaga’s smile disappeared.

“The most recent owner of the book has been kidnapped,” said Jupe. “The kidnapper is demanding the bishop’s book as ransom. If the book isn’t turned over to the kidnapper tomorrow, there is no telling what might happen.”

“Oh,” said Dr. Gonzaga. “I see. I… don’t suppose there’s time to make a photocopy? No, of course not. This sort of book has to be sent to a lab to be photographed properly. A Xerox machine wouldn’t do.”

Dr. Gonzaga took the book from under his arm. For a few moments he stared at it as if it were a priceless treasure. Then, with a sigh, he handed it to Jupe.

“I hope it won’t vanish again,” he said. “If by any chance you can save it… ”

“Of course,” said Jupiter. “You’ll be one of the first to know.”

The boys started for the door. But Jupe turned back suddenly. “Do you know anything about tears of the gods?” he asked.

“Tears of the gods?” echoed Dr. Gonzaga. “That’s a name that some Indians in Colombia give to emeralds. Why do you ask? Does it have anything to do with the book?”

“It might!” said Jupiter.

“Emeralds!” Bob leaned back in his chair and grinned at the ceiling in Headquarters. “Spanish conquerors! A stolen diary! A vanishing servant! What a case this is! Wait till Mr. Sebastian hears about it.”

Hector Sebastian was a mystery writer and a friend of the boys. He always took a lively interest in their cases.

Jupe chuckled. “Mr. Sebastian would probably like us to wait,” he said, “at least until we put all the pieces of the puzzle together.”

He had the print-out of the computer message on the desk in front of him. “Tears of the gods,” he said. “And all for Marilyn, according to this message. But where are the tears? And what does the bloodstained bishop have to do with them?”

“There are lots of emeralds in Colombia,” said Bob. “According to those library books I read, Colombia is the biggest producer of emeralds in the world. Sounds like Marilyn has to go to Sogamoso to find them. I wonder if that bishop had anything to do with emerald mining, or was it just gold?”

“If Pilcher is giving Marilyn a bunch of emeralds,” said Pete, “she could be one really rich lady.”

Jupe looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. The afternoon is practically gone. We’d better call her and tell her what we know so far,” he said. He pulled the telephone toward him and dialed the number of the Pilcher house. Marilyn answered on the second ring.

“It’s me,” said Jupe. “You sound jumpy. Did you hear from the kidnapper again?”

“No, but I’m not leaving the phone. Did you find out anything from your friend at Ruxton?”

“We did. The book we found may be the diary of a bishop who lived in Colombia a few hundred years ago. He was called the bloodstained bishop because he was cruel to the Indians who worked the gold mines there. The diary disappeared when the bishop died. We can’t be absolutely sure about any of this without leaving the book with Dr. Barrister’s friend Dr. Gonzaga so he can have it analyzed. We didn’t want to do that.”

“You bet you didn’t,” said Marilyn.

“One more thing,” said Jupiter. “We know about the tears of the gods. It’s the way the Indians in the Andes refer to emeralds.”

“Emeralds, huh?” Marilyn was silent for a second, then she said, “Well! Emeralds. I wonder what Dad meant. Is he leaving me a bunch of emeralds? And what’s all the mumbo jumbo about an old woman and midsummer’s day? It sounds like witchcraft — you know, like I’m supposed to go to the crossroads by the light of the moon and bury a rabbit’s foot — that kind of stuff.”

“After we ransom your father, it may all become clear,” said Jupe. “Right now the important thing is that we have the book, so we can pay the ransom. Are you going to spend the night at your father’s house? Do you want someone to stay with you?”

“My mom said she’d come over, so I’ll be okay,” Marilyn said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

She hung up.

Almost immediately the phone rang. It was Harry Burnside calling. “Marilyn Pilcher paid me the balance due on her party,” he said. “I am solvent, at least for now, and I’m balancing my books. Want to drop by the shop so I can give you guys the money I owe you?

“Sure thing,” said Jupe.

He hung up, then locked the diary in the file cabinet. The boys went out through Tunnel Two to the workshop, where they got their bikes.

Burnside’s catering place was on a side street in Rocky Beach. When the boys arrived, there was no one in the front of the shop, so they went through to the kitchen. They found Harry Burnside there, sitting at a butcher block table with his pen in hand and an account book open in front of him. One of the girls who had waited on the guests at Marilyn Pilcher’s party was just leaving. She waved a quick greeting.

Burnside smiled. “Hi,” he said. “I’ve got your money ready, and you’d better get it while it’s going. I figure I owe you for four and a half hours at minimum wage, plus a bit.” He handed an envelope to each of them.

“That takes care of everyone but Ramon, and I’ll pay him as soon as he gets back from making a delivery.”

“Ramon?” said Jupe. “Oh! Ramon’s the dishwasher you hired, isn’t he?”

“Yup. He’s been helping me out the last couple of weeks, off and on.”

Bob opened his envelope and thumbed through the bills there. “Hey, you gave me too much,” he said.

“Minimum wage plus a bit,” Harry Burnside shot back. “I can’t stand to pay just minimum wage. It makes me feel like I’m running the Ebenezer Scrooge Sweatshop. You want some chocolate cake? It’s left over from a kid’s party I did this afternoon, and I don’t dare eat it. My girl will dump me if I gain one more ounce.”

“Funny, Aunt Mathilda said something like that to me this morning at breakfast,” said Jupe, “but I don’t think she really meant it.”

“The cake’s in the pantry,” said Burnside. “On the shelf behind the door.”

Jupe went into the pantry, a square little room that opened off the kitchen. It had floor-to-ceiling shelves where Burnside kept packages of chocolate and canisters of flour and sugar, tins of caviar and jars of olives.

Jupe had to swing the door half shut to get at the chocolate cake. As he reached for the knife that Burnside had left on the cake plate, his foot touched something soft.

He looked down and saw a plastic sack that had been shoved behind the door. It was a pink sack with brilliant purple lettering on it. A sack from Becket’s Department Store.

For a second Jupe just stared at the bag. So Harry Burnside has been at Becket’s, he thought. Well, why not? Why shouldn’t the caterer go into the department store to pick up something he needed — a new shirt perhaps, or a pair of shoes. What if Ariago did manage a Becket store for Jeremy Pilcher? That didn’t mean Burnside and Ariago had business together.