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"May I ask why, Signor Merreek since you are warned?" he enquired. "Why, it's this way, Duke. I'm just a simple, common-place American, and have lived a rather stupid existence for some time. We have no brigands at home, nor any hidden valleys or protected criminals like yourself.
But is Signor Merreek a very rich and well acquainted man in his own country? Believe me, it is well that you answer truly." "I think he is." The man looked cautiously around, and then came nearer and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Are you aware that Il Duca knows this?" he asked. Beth thought a moment.
He was very evidently impressed. "Tell me, then, signorini," he said, thoughtfully; "is Senor Merreek very rich?" "Why do you ask?" returned Beth, suspiciously. She remembered the warning conveyed in Mr. Watson's letter. "Of course, I know that all the Americans who travel are rich," continued Frascatti. "I have myself been in Chicago, which is America.
My household effects I will sell, and then abandon the valley forever. Tato and I have some money, enough to live in quiet in some other land, where we shall be unknown." "A very good idea, Duke." "But from my respect for you, Signer Merreek, and from my daughter's love for your nieces the brave and beautiful signorini I shall dare to ask from you a favor.
"It is quite true, signore, I regret being obliged to break the ill news so abruptly; but this gentleman thought himself too poor to purchase my little bracelet, and it was necessary to inform him that he is suddenly made wealthy not yet so great a Croesus as yourself, Signor Merreek, but still a very rich man." Ferralti ceased trembling, but the horror still clung to his eyes.
Then, to his astonishment, he beheld the form of a man stretched lazily in a wicker chair beside the entrance, and while he paused, hesitating, the man sat up and bowed politely to him. "Good morning, Signor Merreek." It was Victor Valdi, or, ignoring the fictitious name, the mysterious personage known as "Il Duca."
"This ring I have decided to sell, and it shall be yours, Signor Merreek, at a price far less than is represented by its historic worth. I am sure you will be glad to buy it." "For how much?" asked Uncle John, curiously. "A trifle; a mere hundred thousand lira." "Twenty thousand dollars!" "The ring of King Roger. How cheap! But, nevertheless, you shall have it for that sum." Uncle John smiled.
He was an enormous Sicilian, tall, sinewy and with a countenance as dark and fierce as his master's. In his belt was a long knife, such as is known as a stilleto. "Tommaso," said the Duke, "kindly show Signor Merreek to his room, and ask Guido if luncheon is ready to be served." "Va bene, padrone," growled the man, and turned obediently to escort the American.
"My dear Duke," he replied, "you have made a sad mistake. I am a comparatively poor man. My fortune is very modest." The brigand lay back in his chair and lighted a fresh cigarette. "I fear you undervalue yourself, my dear guest," he said. "Recently have I returned from America, where I was told much of the wealth of Signor John Merreek, who is many times a millionaire.
"Behold my delight, Signor Merreek, to receive you in my poor home," continued the man. "Will you not be seated, caro amico?" The words were soft and fair, but the dark eyes gleamed with triumph and a sneer curled the thin lips. "Thank you," said Uncle John; "I believe I will." He stepped upon the veranda and sat down opposite his host.
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