Thus ruminating, Uncle John searched the rocky wall carefully and believed he would know the place again, although which of the rough stones of its surface formed the doorway to the tunnel he could not guess.

A ledge of rock served as a path leading to right and left around this end of the valley, or “pocket” in the mountain, as it could more properly be called.  Uncle John turned to the right, striding along with his usual deliberation, smoking his pipe and swinging his cane as he approached the stone dwelling that formed the center of the little settlement.  As yet no sign of human life had he observed since Tato had disappeared, although a few cows were standing in a green meadow and some goats scrambled among the loose rocks at the further end of the enclosure.

Around the house the grounds had been laid out in gardens, with flowers and shrubbery, hedges and shade trees scattered about.  Chickens clucked and strutted along the paths and an air of restfulness and peace brooded over all.

Uncle John was plainly mystified until he drew quite close to the dwelling, which had many verandas and balconies and bore every evidence of habitation.  Then, to his astonishment, he beheld the form of a man stretched lazily in a wicker chair beside the entrance, and while he paused, hesitating, the man sat up and bowed politely to him.

“Good morning, Signor Merreek.”

It was Victor Valdi, or, ignoring the fictitious name, the mysterious personage known as “Il Duca.”

“Behold my delight, Signor Merreek, to receive you in my poor home,” continued the man.  “Will you not be seated, caro amico?”

The words were soft and fair, but the dark eyes gleamed with triumph and a sneer curled the thin lips.

“Thank you,” said Uncle John; “I believe I will.”

He stepped upon the veranda and sat down opposite his host.

“I came to see Count Ferralti, who is hurt, I understand,” he continued.

“It is true, signore, but not badly.  The poor count is injured mostly in his mind.  Presently you shall see him.”

“No hurry,” observed Uncle John.  “Pleasant place you have here, Duke.”

“It is very good of you to praise it, signore.  It is my most ancient patrimony, and quite retired and exclusive.”

“So I see.”

“The house you have honored by your presence, signore, was erected some three hundred and thirty years ago, by an ancestor who loved retirement.  It has been in my family ever since.  We all love retirement.”

“Very desirable spot for a brigand, I’m sure,” remarked the American, puffing his pipe composedly.

“Brigand?  Ah, it pleases you to have humor, signore, mia.  Brigand!  But I will be frank.  It is no dishonor to admit that my great ancestors of past centuries were truly brigands, and from this quiet haven sallied forth to do mighty deeds.  They were quite famous, I am told, those olden Dukes d’Alcanta.”