“Good morning, Count,” said Uncle John, cheerfully.

The other stared at him astonished.

“Good heavens!  Have they got you, too?” he exclaimed.

“Why, I’m visiting his excellency, Il Duca, if that’s what you mean,” replied Mr. Merrick.  “But whether he’s got me, or I’ve got him, I haven’t yet decided.”

The young man’s jaw was tied in a bandage and one of his eyes was black and discolored.  He looked agitated and miserable.

“Sir, you are in grave danger; we are both in grave danger,” he announced, “unless we choose to submit to being robbed by this rascally brigand.”

“Then,” observed Uncle John, “let’s submit.”

“Never!  Not in a thousand years!” cried Ferralti, wildly.  And then this singular young man sank into a chair and burst into tears.

Uncle John was puzzled.  The slender youth—­for he was but a youth in spite of his thin moustaches—­exhibited a queer combination of courage and weakness; but somehow Uncle John liked him better at that moment than he ever had before.  Perhaps because he now realized he had unjustly suspected him.

“You seem to have been hurt, Count,” he remarked.

“Why, I was foolish enough to struggle, and that brute Tommaso pounded me,” was the reply.  “You were wise to offer no resistance, sir.”

“As for that, I hadn’t a choice,” said Uncle John, smiling.  “When did they get you, Ferralti?”

“Last evening.  I walked in the garden of the hotel and they threw a sack over my head.  I resisted and tried to cry out.  They beat me until I was insensible and then brought me here, together with my travelling cases, which they removed from my room to convey the impression that I had gone away voluntarily.  When I awakened from my swoon I was in this room, with the doctor bending over me.”

“The doctor?”

“Oh, they have a doctor in this accursed den, as well as a priest and a lawyer.  The Duke entreated my pardon.  He will punish his men for abusing me.  But he holds me a safe prisoner, just the same.”

“Why?”

“He wants a ransom.  He will force me to purchase an ancient brass candlestick for fifty thousand lira.”

Uncle John looked at his companion thoughtfully.

“Tell me, Count Ferralti,” he said, “who you really are.  I had believed you were Il Duca’s accomplice, until now.  But if he has trapped you, and demands a ransom, it is because you are a person of some consequence, and able to pay.  May I not know as much about your position in life as does this brigand duke?”

The young man hesitated.  Then he spread out his hands with an appealing gesture and said: 

“Not yet, Mr. Merrick!  Do not press me now, I implore you.  Perhaps I have done wrong to try to deceive you, but in good time I will explain everything, and then you will understand me better.”

“You are no count.”

“That is true, Mr. Merrick.”