“I will not buy your candlestick, if that is what you refer to,” was the response.

“No?”

“By no means.  Fifty thousand lira, for a miserable bit of brass!”

“But I forgot to tell you, signore; the candlestick is no longer for sale,” observed the Duke, with an evil smile.  “Instead, I offer you a magnificent bracelet which is a hundred years old.”

“Thank you.  What’s the price?”

“A hundred thousand lira, signore.”

Ferralti started.  Then in turn he smiled at his captor.

“That is absurd,” said he.  “I have no wealth at all, sir, but live on a small allowance that barely supplies my needs.  I cannot pay.”

“I will take that risk, signore,” said the brigand, coolly.  “You have but to draw me an order on Mr. Edward Leighton, of New York, for one hundred thousand lira—­or say twenty thousand dollars—­and the bracelet is yours.”

“Edward Leighton!  My father’s attorney!  How did you know of him, sir?”

“I have an agent in New York,” answered the Duke, “and lately I have been in your city myself.”

“Then, if you know so much, you scoundrelly thief, you know that my father will not honor a draft for such a sum as you demand.  I doubt if my father would pay a single dollar to save me from assassination.”

“We will not discuss that, signore, for I regret to say that your father is no longer able to honor drafts.  However, your attorney can do so, and will, without question.”

Ferralti stared at him blankly.

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

The Duke shook the ashes from his cigar and examined the glowing end with interest.

“Your father,” was the deliberate reply, “was killed in a railway accident, four days ago.  I have just been notified of the fact by a cable from America.”

Ferralti sat trembling and regarding the man with silent horror.

“Is this true, sir?” asked Uncle John, quickly; “or is it only a part of your cursed game?”

“It is quite true, signore, I regret being obliged to break the ill news so abruptly; but this gentleman thought himself too poor to purchase my little bracelet, and it was necessary to inform him that he is suddenly made wealthy—­not yet so great a Croesus as yourself, Signor Merreek, but still a very rich man.”

Ferralti ceased trembling, but the horror still clung to his eyes.

“A railway wreck!” he muttered, hoarsely.  “Where was it, sir?  Tell me, I beseech you!  And are you sure my father is dead?”

“Very sure, signore.  My informant is absolutely reliable.  But the details of the wreck I do not know.  I am only informed of the fact of your father’s death, and that his will leaves you his entire fortune.”

Ferralti arose and staggered away to his room, and Uncle John watched him go pityingly, but knew no way to comfort him.  When he had gone he asked gently: