TATO WINS
"This is funny!" cried Patsy, appearing before Uncle John with a white
and startled face. "I can't find Tato anywhere."
"And her new trunk is gone from her room, as well as her gowns and
everything she owns," continued Beth's clear voice, over her cousin's
shoulder.
Uncle John stared at them bewildered. Then an expression of anxiety
crept over his kindly face.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"There can't be a mistake, Uncle. She's just _gone_."
"None of you has offended, or annoyed the child, I suppose?"
"Oh, no, Uncle. She kissed us all very sweetly when we left her this
morning."
"I can't understand it."
"Nor can we."
"Could her father have come for her, do you think?" suggested Mr.
Merrick, after a moment's thought.
"I can't imagine her so ungrateful as to leave us without a word," said
Patsy. "I know Tato well, Uncle, and the dear child would not hurt our
feelings for the world. She loves us dearly."
"But she's a queer thing," added Louise, "and I don't trust her
altogether. Sometimes I've surprised a look in her eyes that wasn't as
innocent and demure as she would have us imagine her."
"Oh, Louise!"
"And there's another reason."
"What is it?"
"She reformed too suddenly."
Uncle John slapped his forehead a mighty blow as a suspicious and
dreadful thought flashed across his mind. But next instant he drew a
long breath and smiled again.
"It was lucky I lost that key to the trunk," he observed, still a little
ashamed of his temporary lack of confidence in Tato. "It's been locked
ever since we left Taormina, so the child couldn't be tempted by that."
"She wouldn't touch your money for the world!" said Patsy, indignantly.
"Tato is no thief!"
"She comes of a race of thieves, though," Beth reminded her.
"I wonder if Arthur's money is still safe," remarked Louise, following
the line of thought suggested.
As if with one accord they moved down the hall to the door of the young
man's room.
"Are you in, Arthur?" asked Uncle John, knocking briskly.
"Yes, sir."
He opened his door at once, and saw with surprise the little group of
anxious faces outside.
"Is your money safe?" asked Uncle John.
Weldon gave them a startled glance and then ran to his dresser and
pulled open a drawer. After a moment's fumbling he turned with a smile.
"All safe, sir."
Uncle John and his nieces were visibly relieved.
"You see," continued Arthur, "I've invented a clever hiding-place,
because the satchel could not be left alone and I didn't wish to lug it
with me every step I took. So I placed the packages of bills inside the
leg of a pair of trousers, and put them in a drawer with some other
clothing at top and bottom. A dozen people might rummage in that drawer
without suspecting the fact that money is hidden there. I've come to
believe the place is as good as a bank; but you startled me for a
minute, with your question. What's wrong?"
"Tato's gone."
"Gone!"
"Departed bag and baggage."
"But your fifty thousand, sir. Is it safe?"
"It has to be," answered Uncle John. "It is in a steel-bound,
double-locked trunk, to which I've lost the key. No bank can beat that,
my boy."
"Then why did the child run away?"
They could not answer that.
"It's a mystery," said Patsy, almost ready to weep. "But I'll bet it's
that cruel, wicked father of hers. Perhaps he came while we were out and
wouldn't wait a minute."
"What does the hall porter say?" asked Kenneth, who had joined the group
in time to overhear the last speech and guess what had happened.
"Stupid!" cried Uncle John. "We never thought of the hall-porter. Come
back to our sitting room, and we'll have him up in a jiffy."
The portiere answered his bell with alacrity. The Americans were liberal
guests.
The young lady? Ah, she had driven away soon after they had themselves
gone. A thin-faced, dark-eyed man had called for her and taken her away,
placing her baggage on the box of the carriage. Yes, she had paid her
bill and tipped the servants liberally.
"Just as I suspected!" cried Patsy. "That horrid duke has forced her to
leave us. Perhaps he was jealous, and feared we would want to keep her
always. Was she weeping and miserable, porter?"
"No, signorina. She laughed and was very merry. And--but I had
forgotten! There is a letter which she left for the Signorina D'Oyle."
"Where?"
"In the office. I will bring it at once."
He ran away and quickly returned, placing a rather bulky parcel in the
girl's hands.
"You read it, Uncle John," she said. "There can't be anything private in
Tato's letter, and perhaps she has explained everything."
He put on his glasses and then took the missive and deliberately opened
it. Tato wrote a fine, delicate hand, and although the English words
were badly spelled she expressed herself quite well in the foreign
tongue. With the spelling and lack of punctuation corrected, her letter
was as follows:
"Dear, innocent, foolish Patsy: How astonished you will be to find I
have vanished from your life forever; and what angry and indignant words
you will hurl after poor Tato! But they will not reach me, because you
will not know in which direction to send them, and I will not care
whether you are angry or not.
"You have been good to me, Patsy, and I really love you--fully as much
as I have fear of that shrewd and pretty cousin of yours, whose cold
eyes have made me tremble more than once. But tell Beth I forgive her,
because she is the only clever one of the lot of you. Louise thinks she
is clever, but her actions remind me of the juggler who explained his
tricks before he did them, so that the audience would know how skillful
he was."
"But oh, Patsy, what simpletons you all are! And because you have been
too stupid to guess the truth I must bother to write it all down. For it
would spoil much of my satisfaction and enjoyment if you did not know
how completely I have fooled you.
"You tricked us that day in the mountain glen, and for the first time an
Alcanta brigand lost his prisoners and his ransom money through being
outwitted. But did you think that was the end? If so you failed to
appreciate us.
"Look you, my dear, we could have done without the money, for our family
has been robbing and accumulating for ages, with little need to expend
much from year to year. It is all in the Bank of Italy, too, and drawing
the interest, for my father is a wise man of business. That four hundred
thousand lira was to have been our last ransom, and after we had fairly
earned it you tricked us and did not pay.
"So my father and I determined to get even with you, as much through
revenge as cupidity. We were obliged to desert the valley at once,
because we were getting so rich that the government officials became
uneasy and warned us to go or be arrested. So we consulted together and
decided upon our little plot, which was so simple that it has worked
perfectly. We came to you with our sad story, and you thought we had
reformed, and kindly adopted me as one of your party. It was so easy
that I almost laughed in your foolish faces. But I didn't, for I can
act. I played the child very nicely, I think, and you quite forgot I was
a brigand's daughter, with the wild, free blood of many brave outlaws
coursing in my veins. Ah, I am more proud of that than of my acting.
"Innocent as I seemed, I watched you all carefully, and knew from
almost the first hour where the money had been put. I stole the key to
Uncle John's trunk on the train, while we were going from Taormina to
Syracuse; but I did not take the money from it because I had no better
place to keep it, and the only danger was that he would force the lock
some day. But Ferralti's money--I call him Ferralti because it is a
prettier name than Weldon--bothered me for a long time. At the first he
would not let that little satchel out of his sight, and when he finally
did he had removed the money to some other place. I searched his room
many times, but could not find his hiding place until last night. While
he was at dinner I discovered the bills in one of the drawers of his
dresser.
"But for this difficulty I should have left your charming society
before, as my father has been secretly waiting for me for three days.
Having located Ferralti's money I waited until this morning and when you
had all left me I signalled to my father from my window and prepared to
disappear. It took but a few minutes to get the money from Uncle John's
trunk and Arthur's trouser-leg. Much obliged for it, I'm sure. Then I
packed up all my pretty dresses in my new trunk--for part of our plot
was to use your good taste in fitting me out properly--and now I am
writing this loving epistle before I leave.
"We shall go to Paris or Vienna or Cairo or London--guess which! We
shall have other names--very beautiful ones--and be rich and dignified
and respected. When I grow older I think I shall marry a prince and
become a princess; but that will not interest you much, for you will not
know that the great princess is your own little Tato.
"Tell Uncle John I have left the key to his trunk on the mantel, behind
the picture of the madonna. I stuffed papers into Arthur's trouser leg
to deceive him if he came back before I had a chance to escape. But I
hoped you would discover nothing until you read this letter, for I
wanted to surprise you. Have I? Then I am content. You tricked me once;
but I have tricked you at the last, and the final triumph is mine.
"In spite of all, Patsy dear, I love you; for you are sweet and good,
and although I would not be like you for the world I can appreciate your
excellent qualities. Remember this when your anger is gone. I won't be
able to visit you in America, but I shall always think of you in a more
kindly way than I fear you will think of the Sicilian tomboy, TATO."