“I do not think so,” said Louise.  “He liked this hotel very much.”

“And he may have liked some of its guests,” added Patsy, smiling.  “Well, Uncle John will soon be back, and then we will talk it over with him.”

Uncle John was late.  The portiere returned first.  He had been to every hotel in the little town, but none of them had received a guest since the afternoon train of yesterday.  Count Ferralti had disappeared as if by magic, and no one could account for it.

Noon arrived, but no Uncle John.  The girls became dispirited and anxious, for the little man was usually very prompt in keeping his engagements, and always had returned at the set time.

They waited until the last moment and then entered the salle a manger and ate their luncheon in gloomy silence, hoping every moment to hear the sound of their uncle’s familiar tread.

After luncheon they held a hurried consultation and decided to go into town and search for him.  So away they trooped, asking eager questions in their uncertain Italian but receiving no satisfactory reply until they reached the little office of the tax gatherer at the Catania Gate.

“Ah, si, signorini mia,” he answered, cheerfully, “il poco signore passato da stamattini.”

But he had not returned?

Not yet.

They looked at one another blankly.

“See here,” said Patsy; “Uncle John must have lost his way or met with an accident.  You go back to the hotel, Louise, and wait there in case he returns home another way.  Beth and I will follow some of these paths and see if we can find him.”

“He may have sprained an ankle, and be unable to walk,” suggested Beth.  “I think Patsy’s advice is good.”

So Louise returned through the town and the other girls began exploring the paths that led into the mountains from every turn of the highway.  But although they searched eagerly and followed each path a mile or more of its length, no sign of life did they encounter—­much less a sight of their missing uncle.  The paths were wild and unfrequented, only on the Catania road itself a peasant now and then being found patiently trudging along or driving before him a donkey laden with panniers of oranges or lemons for the markets of Taormina.

On some of the solitary rocky paths they called to Uncle John by name, hoping that their voices might reach him; but only the echoes replied.  Finally they grew discouraged.

“It will be sunset before we get back, even if we start this minute,” said Beth, finally.  “Let us return, and get some one to help us.”

Patsy burst into tears.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s lost, or murdered, or kidnapped!” she wailed.  “Dear, dear Uncle John!  Whatever shall we do, Beth?”

“Why, he may be at home, waiting for us to get back.  Don’t give way, Patsy; it will do no good, you know.”

They were thoroughly tired when, just at sunset, they reached the hotel.  Louise came to meet them, and by the question in her eyes they knew their uncle had not returned.