“Something must be done, and at once,” said Beth, decidedly.  She was the younger of the three girls, but in this emergency took the lead because of her calm and unruffled disposition and native good sense.  “Is Frascatti in the courtyard?”

Patsy ran to see, and soon brought the vetturino into their sitting room.  He could speak English and knew the neighborhood thoroughly.  He ought to be able to advise them.

Frascatti listened intently to their story.  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.  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.

“We met the man you call Il Duca, but who told us he was Signor Victor Valdi, on board the ship, where many of the passengers knew my uncle well.  If he listened to their conversation he would soon know all about John Merrick, of course.”

Frascatti wagged his head solemnly.

“Then, signorina,” he said, still speaking very softly, “I assure you there is no need to worry over your uncle’s safety.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Beth.

“People do not lose their way in our mountains,” he replied.  “The paths are straight, and lead all to the highways.  And there is little danger of falling or of being injured.  But—­I regret to say it, signorini—­it is a reflection upon our advanced civilization and the good name of our people—­but sometimes a man who is rich disappears for a time, and no one knows how it is, or where he may be.  He always returns; but then he is not so rich.”

“I understand.  My uncle is captured by brigands, you think.”

“There are no brigands, signorina.”

“Or the Mafia, then.”

“I do not know the Mafia.  All I know is that the very rich should keep their riches secret when they travel.  In Chicago, which is America, they will knock you upon the head for a few miserable dollars; here my countrymen scorn to attack or to rob the common people.  But when a man is so very rich that he does not need all of his money, there are, I regret to say, some lawless ones in Sicily who insist that he divide with them.  But the prisoner is always well treated, and when he pays he is sent away very happy.”

“Suppose he does not pay?”

“Ah, signorina, will not a drowning man clutch the raft that floats by?  And the lawless ones do not take his all—­merely a part.”