“I have noticed,” returned the Duke, coldly, “that this strange delusion of mind is apt to overtake my guests.  But do not be alarmed; it will pass away presently, and then you will realize that you are yourself.  Remember that I crossed the Atlantic on your steamship, signore.  Many people there on board spoke of you and pointed you out to me as the great man of finance.  Your own niece that is called Patsy, she also told me much about you, and of your kindness to her and the other young signorini.  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.

Then he caught a word or two of English that made him start.  He went to the door between the two rooms and threw it open, finding himself face to face with Count Ferralti.

CHAPTER XVIII

GUESTS OF THE BRIGAND