Aunt Jane's Nieces Abroad
Before I left New York a banker of much dignity informed me
you would sail on the ship 'Princess Irene.' If a mistake has been made,
signore, it is yours, and not mine. Is your memory clearer now?"
Uncle John laughed frankly. The rascal was too clever for him to dispute
with.
"Whoever I am," said he, "I will not buy your ring."
"I am pained," replied the brigand, lightly. "But there is ample time
for you to reflect upon the matter. Do not decide hastily, I implore
you. I may have been too liberal in making my offer, and time may assist
me in fixing a just price for the relic. But we have had enough of
business just now. It is time for our midday collation. Oblige me by
joining us, signore."
He blew a shrill whistle, and a man stepped out of a doorway. 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.
Uncle John entered the house, traversed a broad and cool passage,
mounted to the second floor and found himself in a pleasant room with a
balcony overlooking the valley. It was comfortably furnished, and with
a bow that was not without a certain grim respect the man left him alone
and tramped down the stairs again. There had been no attempt to restrain
his liberty or molest him in any way, yet he was not slow to recognize
the fact that he was a prisoner. Not in the house, perhaps, but in the
valley. There was no need to confine him more closely. He could not
escape.
He bathed his hands and face, dried them on a fresh towel, and found his
toilet table well supplied with conveniences. In the next room some one
was pacing the floor like a caged beast, growling and muttering angrily
at every step.
Uncle John listened. "The brigand seems to have more than one guest," he
thought, and smiled at the other's foolish outbursts.
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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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