UNCLE JOHN DISAPPEARS Uncle John grew to love Taormina.

Its wildness and ruggedness somehow reminded him of the Rockies in the old pioneer days, and he wandered through all the lanes of the quaint old town until he knew every cornice and cobblestone familiarly, and the women who sat weaving or mending before their squalid but picturesque hovels all nodded a greeting to the cheery little American as he passed by.
He climbed Malo, too, a high peak crowned by a ruined castle; and also Mt.

Venere, on the plateau of which an ancient city had once stood.

His walking tours did him good, and frequently while the girls lay stretched upon the grass that lined the theatre enclosure, to idle the time or read or write enthusiastic letters home, Uncle John, scorning such laziness, would take his stick and climb mountains, or follow the rough paths that diverged from the highway just beyond the Catania Gate.
The tax gatherer whose tiny office was just inside the gate came to know the little gentleman very well, and although he could speak no English he would bob his grizzled head and murmur: "_Buon giorno, signore!_" as the stranger passed out on his daily stroll.
One afternoon Mr.Merrick went down the hill path leading from the Castello-a-Mare to Capo di San Andrea, and as he passed around a narrow ledge of rock came full upon two men seated upon a flat stone.

One was Valdi and the other Ferralti, and they seemed engaged in earnest conversation when he interrupted them.