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Aunt Jane's Nieces Abroad
"I shall probably pay promptly. But tell
me, to satisfy my curiosity, how does your duke murder his victims?"
"He does not call it murder, as I do; he says they are suicides, or the
victims of accident. They walk along a path and fall into a pit. It is
deep, and they are killed. The pit is also their tomb. They are
forgotten, and the trap is already set for their successors."
"Rather a gloomy picture, doctor."
"Yes. I tell you this because my nature is kind. I abhor all crime, and
much prefer that you should live. But, if you die, my _salario_
continues. I am employed to guard the health of the Duke's
family--especially the old Duchessa--and have no part in this detestable
business."
"Isn't that a bite?"
"No, signore. It is the current. It is not time for the fish to bite."
Uncle John arose.
"Good afternoon, doctor."
"Good afternoon, signore."
He left the old fellow sitting there and walked on. The valley was about
a half mile long and from a quarter to a third of a mile in width. It
resembled a huge amphitheatre in shape.
The American tramped the length of the brook, which disappeared into the
rocky wall at the far end. Then he returned through the orchards to the
house.
The place was silent and seemed deserted. There was a languor in the
atmosphere that invited sleep. Uncle John sought his room and lay down
for an afternoon nap, soon falling into a sound slumber.
When he awoke he found Ferralti seated beside his bed. The young man was
pale, but composed.
"Mr. Merrick," said he, "what have you decided to do?"
Uncle John rubbed his eyes and sat up.
"I'm going to purchase that ring," he answered, "at the best price the
Duke will make me."
"I am disappointed," returned Ferralti, stiffly. "I do not intend to
allow myself to be robbed in this way."
"Then write a farewell letter, and I'll take it to your friends."
"It may not be necessary, sir."
Uncle John regarded him thoughtfully.
"What can you do?" he asked.
Ferralti leaned forward and whispered, softly: "I have a stout
pocket-knife, with a very long blade.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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