The Motor Maids Across the Continent Part 33

"Mystery of mysteries," exclaimed Miss Campbell. "Who can it be?"

"It's just like Mr. Ignatius Donahue," said Elinor.

"It's more like papa," put in Billie.

Evelyn would have liked to add-"It's more like Daniel," but she could not bring herself to mention his name when he had treated her so coldly.

"How did anyone know we were here?" asked Miss Campbell.

"The hotel clerk knew," replied Billie, "because we asked him about the road."

At last, after finis.h.i.+ng off with fruit and cheese and cups of black coffee, the delicious birthday luncheon reached an end, like all good things, and the ladies went forth to see the festa.

Down the street came some forty young men and girls singing a wild Sicilian pastorale, each verse of which ended in a weird turn. Many of them were crowned with grape leaves, like Baccha.n.a.lian dancers, and some of them carried baskets filled with the fruit. It was the end of the grapecutting season, and each year, Pasquale, the great man of the village, gave a festa at this time.

In front of the inn was a long narrow table whereon stood jugs of wine, plates of cold meats and ripe olives, dear to the heart of every true Italian. The table fairly groaned under the weight of food-cheeses and long loaves, salads, figs, oranges and grapes.

A gentle old priest with a humorous, kindly smile, came out of the church and welcomed the motorists.

"You will enjoy the festa," he said. "It is a pretty sight not often seen out of Italy."

The feasting and singing lasted until late in the afternoon. Then the dancing began in the yard of the inn. Pretty Lucia, Pasquale's daughter, and a young man with fierce black eyes, danced a tarentella together and another man and woman danced a Sicilian dance wilder even than the tarentella. Finally everybody began dancing and the girls joined in, leaving Miss Campbell and the old priest seated in a pergola at the side of the house, absorbed in an interesting conversation.

As darkness descended torches were lit, but it was difficult to distinguish faces and no one noticed two men in dark slouch hats drawn well over their faces who mingled with the crowd. Evelyn Stone, standing alone on the outskirts of the crowd, watched her four friends waltzing among the dancers.

"How much happier Lucia is than I am," she was thinking. "How I wish I had been born just a simple peasant girl. Money means so little in comparison."

But her reflections were rudely interrupted. A black scarf was thrown over her head and she was lifted off her feet and carried out of the circle of light into the darkness.

Owing to the unusual festivities, supper for the guests at the inn was very late that evening, and not until well past eight o'clock did Pasquale announce that the ladies would be served on the terrace.

"Where is Evelyn?" asked Miss Campbell anxiously when they had gathered around the table.

"Perhaps she has gone off with Lucia," suggested Billie.

But Lucia was waiting on the table and had not seen her. Pasquale sent a boy scurrying around to search for her while the others ate their supper. They were quite sure she had wandered off with some of the villagers whom she had known before.

Night deepened and the moon came up, flooding the valley with its golden rays. It was very chilly, and they put on their ulsters and sat in a row on the terrace, waiting. From the inn yard came the sound of music and the beat of the dancers' feet on the hard ground.

At last the waiting grew unbearable. Miss Campbell went to confer with the old priest next door and the girls hurried down the village street to search for their friend from house to house. Men were sent down the mountain road to the valley below. Others hunted through the vineyard.

Somewhere in the village a clock struck midnight. The music ceased. The dancers crept off to bed, cold and tired.

The Motor Maids climbed upstairs to their small bedrooms under the eaves.

Nothing could be done until morning, the priest said. And while it seemed impossible to sleep, they agreed they must take some rest.

Tired out with the long day, they did sleep however, and the sun was high in the heavens before they waked.

CHAPTER XXIII.-A CHANGE OF HEART.

Next morning, they dressed hurriedly, reproaching themselves that they had slept so late.

"What's to be done?" cried poor Miss Campbell, half distracted as she rushed about her room. "Shall we telegraph her father?"

"How do we know he hasn't kidnapped her?" suggested Mary.

"Suppose we telegraph Mr. Moore?" said Elinor.

"But where is Mr. Moore? He has never written a line in answer to our letters. That's why I am uneasy. That poor girl was growing more unhappy every day."

"Shall we notify the police of Sacramento, then?" put in Billie.

"That would be a good idea, but we must see Pasquale first. Send him up here at once, Billie," called Miss Campbell as the young girl departed, pinning on her hat as she ran down the narrow steps outside.

A hundred conjectures flashed through their minds as they hastened to get into their clothes. Could Evelyn have done anything rash and foolish? But Miss Campbell felt sure the girl was much too thoughtful and unselfish to have involved them in a trouble of that sort. No, it was that Stone man, her father, who had spirited her away.

Pasquale appeared at the door. His face was an impenetrable mask, through which his small eyes twinkled like the eyes of an animal.

"Pasquale," cried Miss Campbell, "what are we to do? Where has the young lady gone? Have your men really brought no news whatever?"

"No news, Signora," he replied, rubbing his hands.

"Don't stand there blinking at me," she cried. "Tell me what I must do.

Is there no telegraph station up here?"

"No, Signora, but breakfast, ita is served, Signora."

"Breakfast! Don't talk to me about breakfast when I'm half distracted.

Have some coffee ready and send around the motor car. We will start at once for Sacramento or some town where we can telegraph."

"The Signora will pleasea have breakfast," continued the imperturbable Italian.

Miss Campbell was tying on her blue veil ready to leave the instant they had swallowed their coffee.

"Have the bags carried down," she cried, "and strapped on the car."

"The Signora willa be pleased with breakfast. It is Americana breakfast, made specialmente for Signora and the young ladies-the chicken broila-Signora."

"The man will drive me mad," cried Miss Campbell rus.h.i.+ng down stairs with veils flying, her hand bag in one hand, her coat in the other, followed by the girls who had been struggling to pack their suitcases and get away as soon as possible.

At the bottom of the steps, they met Lucia, smiling and fresh in spite of her dissipations of the day before.

"The ladies will please enter for breakfast," she said.

Back of them came Pasquale without any suitcase at all.