“Would your energy like to drive us this morning?” he asked.

“It is my duty, signore, if you wish to go,” was the reply.

“Then you are engaged.  Come, girls; hop in, if you want to ride.”

The three nieces and Uncle John just filled the victoria.  The count was disconsolate at being so cleverly dropped from the party, but could only flourish his hat and wish them a pleasant drive.

They descended the winding road to the coast, where Frascatti took the highway to Sant’ Alessio, a charming drive leading to the Taormina Pass.

“By the way,” Uncle John asked the driver, “do you know of a duke that lives in this neighborhood?”

The laughing face of the Sicilian suddenly turned grave.

“No, signore.  There is the Prince di Scaletta; but no duke on this side the town.”

“But on the other side?”

“Oh; in the mountains?  To be sure there are noblemen there; old estates almost forgotten in our great civilization of to-day.  We are very progressive in Taormina, signore.  There will be a fountain of the ice cream soda established next summer.  Quite metropolitan, ne c’e?”

“Quite.  But, tell me, Frascatti, have you a duke in the mountains back of Taormina?”

“Signore, I beg you to pay no attention to the foolish stories you may hear from our peasants.  There has been no brigandage here for centuries.  I assure you the country is perfectionly safe—­especial if you stay within the town or take me on your drives.  They know me, signore, and even Il Duca dares not trifle with my friends.”

“Why should he, Frascatti, if there is no brigandage?  Is it the Mafia?”

“Ah, I have heard that Mafia spoken of, but mostly when I lived in America, which is Chicago.  Here we do not know of the Mafia.”

“But you advise us to be careful?”

“Everywhere, illustrissimo signore, it is well to be what you call the circumspection.  I remember that in the State street of Chicago, which is America, peaceful citizens were often killed by bandits.  Eh, is it not so?”

“Quite probable,” said Uncle John, soberly.

“Then, what will you?  Are we worse than Americans, that you fear us?  Never mind Il Duca, or the tales they foolishly whisper of him.  Here you may be as safe and happy as in Chicago—­which is America.”

He turned to his horses and urged them up a slope.  The girls and Uncle John eyed one another enquiringly.

“Our duke seems to bear no good reputation,” said Beth, in a tone so low that Frascatti could not overhear.  “Everyone fears to speak of him.”

“Singular,” said Uncle John, “that Patsy’s friend turns out to be a mystery, even in his own home.  I wonder if he is a leader of the Mafia, or just a common brigand?”

“In either case,” said Patsy, “he will not care to injure us, I am sure.  We all treated him very nicely, and I just made him talk and be sociable, whether he wanted to or not.  That ought to count for something in our favor.  But my opinion is that he’s just a gruff old nobleman who lives in the hills and makes few friends.”