William Le Queux (continued 2)

The captain stood glaring at his accuser, utterly dumbfounded. This latter truth had not been given in evidence against him. The Minister therefore held certain secret information of which he was in entire ignorance. He had been watched in Paris! He held his breath, and was silent. Even the general looked at him in surprise and suspicion.

“No,” he answered hoarsely at last, “I do not deny it. The man did lend me money.”

“For what purpose—eh? In order to obtain from you in secret the plans of the Tresenta fortress,” declared His Excellency. “French agents do not lend money to Italian officers without some quid pro quo.”

“I did not know that the fellow was a spy until afterwards.”

“Until it was too late, I suppose. You were entrapped, so you were compelled to give the plans to France. Now admit it.”

“I assert that I am entirely innocent,” he declared. “It is true that I spent my leave in Paris, where I met a man who called himself Georges Latrobe, an engineer from Bordeaux, who spoke Italian I ran short of cash, and he lent me five hundred francs, which I repaid to him ten days after my return to barracks. It was only on the last day when I was with him that my suspicions were aroused regarding his real character. We were sitting together in the Café Terminus, when he turned the conversation to our defences on the Alpine frontier, expressing a desire to visit me at Gran Paradiso. I at once told him that the admission of strangers within the military zone was prohibited. But he pressed me, and even went so far as to offer me a receipt for the money he had lent me, together with a like sum if I could gain him admission, in order, so he said, to see the latest feat of Italian engineering. But my suspicions were at once aroused. I told him that his suggestion was impossible, and from that day I have not seen him.”

“But you furnished him with plans and details of the fortifications?” snapped the Minister of War.

“I did not,” denied the captain stoutly. “I admit that I very narrowly escaped falling into a clever trap, but fortunately saved myself. If the plans have actually been furnished, then they have been given by someone else, not by me; and that letter was placed in my quarters in order to divert suspicion from the guilty person.”

“Ah, a very ingenious story!” the Minister laughed incredulously. “You admit being friendly with the spy?”

“I admit all that is the truth, your Excellency, but I flatly deny that I am a traitor to my king,” was the accused man’s quick, response.

“But you see you were watched while on leave,” the Minister went on, referring to his report. “On your return from Paris you travelled by way of Milan to Bologna, where you visited a certain Signora Nodari and her daughter.”

“The latter was my betrothed,” the unhappy man explained.

“Exactly. Then how do you account for the agent Latrobe calling upon her a month later and obtaining from her a packet which she had received by post from the garrison of Gran Paradiso? It was only afterwards that this fact was known, otherwise the spy would not have escaped from Italy.”

Captain Solaro stood rigid.

“Have you really proof of this, your Excellency?” he demanded in a low, hoarse voice. “I—I cannot think that she would betray me.”

“Ah! Never trust a woman,” observed the Minister, with a grim smile. “She has made a statement—a statement which proves everything.”

“Which proves?” he cried wildly. “Which proves I am innocent.”

“No,” declared Morini calmly. “Which proves that you are guilty.”

“Ah, but let me tell you how—”

“No more!” cried Morini, rising with quick anger from his chair and snapping his fingers in impatience. “You have been found guilty and sentenced, and I think that even your general, after your own admissions, is now convinced of his injudicious and ridiculous attempt to shield a traitor.”

“Ah!” cried the unfortunate man, hot tears springing to his eyes, “I see now how I have been betrayed—and I know by whom!”

“I have no further time to waste upon hearing any counter-charges,” abruptly answered the Minister. “From to-day you are dismissed the army in disgrace. My decree will appear in to-night’s Gazette, and, General Valentini,” he added meaningly, turning to the stern old officer who had writhed beneath the civilian’s rebuke, “convey your prisoner back to Turin, and do not again become the gaoler of a traitor.”

“You absolutely refuse to hear me further, then!” cried the captain in wild desperation, dismayed to find that all attempt to clear his character had failed.

“I do.”

The accused man with set teeth drew his sword, and with one quick wrench across his knee broke the gleaming blade and cast it ringing upon the marble floor.

“Take my sword!” he cried, drawing himself up to the salute. “Take my honour—take my life! But you—even you, Camillo Morini—cannot condemn me with justice! One day you shall know that I am innocent—you hear!—innocent!”

And with firm tread he strode out of the Minister’s private room, followed by his general, who merely saluted in stiff silence, his scabbard trailing upon the marble.

Chapter Nine.

His Excellency Learns the Truth.

The Minister of War was seated busily writing beneath the green-shaded reading-lamp in the big library of the great old Antinori Palace, his handsome residence in Rome.

Five years ago he had bought that enormous old place in the Via Nazionale—a place full of historic interest—together with its old furniture, its gallery of cinquecento paintings, and its corridor filled with armour. It was a high, square, ponderous place of princely dimensions, with a great central courtyard where an old fountain plashed on in the silence as it had done for three centuries or more, while around the arched cloisters were the carved arms of the various families through whose hands the place had passed in generations bygone.

The library was a high room on the first floor, with long cases filled with parchment-covered books, many of them illuminated codices and rare editions, a fine frescoed ceiling, and a great open hearth over which was an ornamentation of carved marble of the Renaissance with a grinning mascherino. The floor was of marble, except that the littered writing-table was set upon an oasis of thick Turkey carpet, giving to the room an austere character of comfortless grandeur, like everything else in that huge old palace of the days when every house of the Roman nobility was a fortress.

An Italian Minister’s life is not by any means an easy one, as Camillo Morini had long ago discovered. He was often in his private cabinet at the Ministry of War at nine o’clock in the morning, and frequently sent home by his private secretary urgent papers which he could examine and initial after dinner, as he had done that day. His wife and daughter were up at the villa near Florence for the vintage, and he was alone and undisturbed. He had not even troubled to change for dinner, but was still in the linen suit he had worn during the day, and had merely exchanged his white coat for an easy black alpaca one.

As Minister of War, his salary was one thousand pounds sterling per annum, an amount quite inadequate for his needs. True, he travelled free in his private saloon on the railway, but yet he had a most uncomfortable time of it owing to the fact that he was expected by his friends to repay them for services rendered with the gift of offices, favours, introductions, and recommendations. Wherever he went he was besieged by a host of people who wanted favours, exemptions of their sons from military service, increased stipend, or the redressing of some act of official injustice or petty tyranny.

His wife, too, was pestered with “recommendations” to him; for without recommendations nothing could be obtained. If he went to inspect the garrison of a provincial town, the prefect, the mayor, the head of the carabinieri, and the most prominent citizens called on him every day; while when in the country the wheezy village band played operatic airs outside his window every evening, alternated with a chorus of children from the elementary schools.

His sovereign, King Humbert, although good-natured and brave, was too easy-going and lacking in moral stamina to make a really strong monarch, hence the whole Cabinet, from the Prime Minister downwards, were guilty of grave irregularities, if not of actual corruption. The fault, however, lay with the system, rather than with the men. How could a Cabinet Minister entertain lavishly and keep up appearances upon a mere thousand pounds a year, when he had no private means?

Happily, the present hard-working, cultivated king, Victor Emmanuel the Third, has mastered all the details of state business, and has swept his Cabinet clean of those men who abused their position under his lamented father, until the whole face of Italian politics has entirely changed since the days when Camillo Morini held office as head of the army.

Under the late King Humbert, Ministers were often chosen, not because they were capable statesmen, but simply because it was necessary that a particular region should be represented in the Cabinet, so as not to arouse local jealousies. In any case, their tenure of office was too precarious and too short to enable them to do much good work, and whatever the Minister managed to do would probably be undone by his successor.

Morini would have gone out of office half a dozen times had he not succeeded, by judicious bribery, in obtaining protection from his enemies. Indeed, he only retained office by dint of his own ingenuity and clever diplomacy towards those who were ever trying to hound him down. Not only did he bear the great responsibility of the army, but, in common with other members of the Cabinet, the greater part of his activity was absorbed in the manipulation of party groups in the Chamber and in studying parliamentary exigencies. He had to judiciously subsidise certain newspapers in view of a general election, make use of the secret service fund in certain quarters, and be careful not to shower too many favours on one province; for if he offended any particular town, the local deputy, hitherto a staunch ministerialist, would turn and rend him.

Truly his position, head of an army costing sixteen millions annually, and with a multitude of people bent on getting something out of him, was the reverse of comfortable. He would have resigned long ago had he dared, but resignation or dismissal from office would, he knew only too well, spell ruin to him. So he was held there in an office of bribery and dishonesty, which he had grown to regard with bitter hatred. He had served through three administrations, it was true, and was a trusted servant of his king, yet the daily worry of it all, the ever-present fear of exposure and of downfall, held him in constant apprehension of a future ruin and obscurity.

The dead silence of the night was unbroken save by the scratching of his quill as he scribbled his signature upon one after another of the pile of various papers at his elbow.

He wrote mechanically, for he was reflecting upon that scene in his cabinet when the captain of Cacciatori Alpini had broken his sword across his knee.

“A clever fellow!” he murmured. “He thought to bluff me, but he did not know how closely I had had him watched. If I did not know all that I do, I really believe I should have thought him innocent. A good actor. I will send his broken sword as a present to that doddering old fool, his general—as a souvenir of his visit to Rome without leave!” he laughed to himself, still continuing to sign the commissions and decrees.

Of a sudden there was a rap at the big white doors at the end of the dimly lit room, and a gorgeously dressed man-servant in stockings and gold-laced coat advanced to the table, saying—

“The Onorevole Ricci desires to see your Excellency.”

“Pig’s head! Didn’t I give orders that I was not at home?” he cried, turning furiously upon the man.

“But your Excellency is always at home to the Signor Deputato?” the servant reminded him, surprised at the sudden outburst of anger.

“Ah!” growled his master. “Yes, you are right, Antonio! I forgot that I told you I was always at home to him. I must see him, I suppose,” he sighed, and when the man had gone his brow contracted, his teeth clenched; yet almost before he could recover his self-possession the long white doors reopened, and his visitor—a short, dark-bearded, middle-aged man in evening dress—was ushered in.

“Ah, my dear Camillo!” he cried enthusiastically, advancing towards the Minister, who rose and took his hand. “I only arrived in Rome this afternoon, and heard you had returned from England. Well, and how are you after your holiday? I suppose I may take a cigar?” he asked, crossing to the cigar-box, opening it, and selecting one.

“The rest was welcome,” answered the other calmly, stretching his arms above his head and glancing furtively at the new-comer as though he held him in some suspicion. He was a pleasant-looking man, a trifle stout, with a round, sun-bronzed face, as though fond of good living, while his perfectly fitting dress-suit was cut in a style which showed it to be the garment of a London tailor. He possessed the careless, easy manner of the gentleman, striking a match and lighting his cigar with a familiarity which showed that he was no stranger to the Minister’s roof.

“I too have been in the country for quite a long while,” he said—“at Asti. I have to visit the electors now and then just to make them promises and put them in a good-humour.”

“Or they would hound you out, Vito—eh?—just as the Socialists would throw me out if they could,” laughed His Excellency drily, walking to the cigar-box, selecting one, and lighting it.

“And Her Excellency and the signorina?” inquired the deputy.

“They are up at the villa. They always go there for the vintage.”

“Of course, Rome in September is only fit for us politicians and the English tourists. I wonder you are back so early.”

“Duty, my dear Vito,” replied the other. “One day, when you are Minister, you will find that you had much more leisure as advocate in Turin and deputy for Asti.”

“I suppose so,” he laughed. Then he added, “I met Angelo in the club an hour ago. He has also been in England, it seems. I think I shall go to England next summer—if you invite me.”

“Which is not likely.”

“Why?”

“Because when I am in England I like to be away from all my official duties,” frankly answered Morini. “They don’t even know who or what I am—and I delight in keeping them in ignorance.”

“Then why did you invite Angelo? I am jealous, you see.”

“Because I wished to consult him upon a confidential matter.”

“Regarding an army contract tendered you by a German firm,” replied the other, carelessly blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips as he stood with his back to the huge open grate. “You may as well tell the truth, my dear friend.”

The Minister, starting, looked at him sharply, and asked—

“How did you know?”

“Never mind how I know, Camillo. It is, as you see, useless for you to try and deceive me. You have given the contract to those Germans—for a consideration. But don’t think that I blame you. Why, I should do the very same thing myself. I get a little in my own small way out of certain people in Asti, but not enough. That’s why I am compelled, so much against my will, to come to you.”

“Ah!” groaned the Minister, facing him quickly and determinedly. “The same old story—eh? Money.”

“Like air, it is a necessity of life,” he replied, smiling. “I have been in want of it for a month past, but preferred to wait rather than to trouble you while you were on holiday.”

“But you surely get enough now!” protested His Excellency. “I’ve obtained a dozen different favours for you; I’ve given you appointments; I’ve allowed you to make recommendations for military decorations in Piedmont; I’ve allowed you to handle the secret service funds; and I’ve done all I could so as to place you in a position to receive secret commission. But of course, if you fail to make use of your opportunities, it is not my fault.”

“Never fear. I do not stir a finger without some consideration,” he laughed. “You surely know me too well after all these years. No; I find that it is not sufficient. Money I want, and money I must have. Recollect what services I have rendered to you in the Camera, my dear Camillo,” he went on. “You surely do not forget the dead set made against you a year ago, and how I succeeded in uniting the various groups and inducing them to pass a vote of confidence! You never were nearer downfall than you were that afternoon—except, perhaps, to-night. You have enemies, my dear friend—enemies in the Socialist groups, who declare that you have held office too long,” he added.

“I know,” exclaimed the other hoarsely. “I know that,” and he tossed his cigar away with a quick, impatient gesture.

“While you’ve been abroad I have been active in secretly ascertaining the real state of political opinion in the north, and much as I regret to tell you, it is distinctly antagonistic. Now that Milan is such a strong Socialist centre the other large towns are following, and an agitation is spreading against you. They want a fresh man in office as Minister of War—the man who is so cleverly scheming to replace you.”

“To replace me!” exclaimed Morini. “And who is this man, pray?”

The words which Vito Ricci had spoken sank like iron into his soul. He knew, alas! how very precarious was his office.

“The man is our friend Angelo,” slowly replied the crafty deputy. “Already in the north he is looked upon as your successor. If the groups in the Camera fall asunder, then your dismissal is imminent. I know this is a very unwelcome piece of news, my dear Camillo, but it is a hard fact which I have come here to-night to reveal to you.”

Chapter Ten.

“For Mary’s Sake.”

His Excellency’s face fell. He was silent for several moments.

The easy-going, well-dressed political adventurer before him was, he knew, in the secrets of the strong party who were his opponents and who were ever plotting his downfall. He had, since his return to Rome, heard rumours through certain quarters in which secret service money was spent that an agitation had been set afoot by his antagonists, but he had never dreamed that the prime mover of it all was the very man in whom he had so implicitly trusted, one of the men who owed everything to him—Angelo Borselli! The revelation staggered him. He really could not believe it to be actually true.

“And so he intends to become Minister—eh?” remarked Morini bitterly, when he at last found tongue.

“He is working for that end,” replied Ricci. “I was in Milan and Parma a week ago, and on every hand I saw how cleverly he was stirring up ill-feeling against you. He is secretly allied to the Socialists—of that I am certain.”

“Because he sees that through them he can obtain office,” replied His Excellency, his pale face now very serious. “You have done well to tell me this, caro mio,” he added. “I shall know now how to deal with the man who learns my secrets and then seeks to betray me.”

“But your position is daily becoming one of graver peril,” exclaimed the wily advocate, placing his hand confidentially upon the Minister’s arm. “The agitation is widespread. The Socialists intend that the Government shall fall.”

“But you will help me, Vito, as before?” Morini urged quickly. “Those shrieking Socialist maniacs shall not gain the ascendency?” he declared, clenching his hands and pacing the room quickly.

Vito Ricci, deputy for the town of Asti, shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply. In the Italian Camera every politician of any prominence had a small body of adherents, and political ability consisted in so manipulating a number of these bodies as to form a majority; therefore for this purpose each Minister secretly bribed one or more of the most unscrupulous deputies to juggle with the party. A group might to-day be on the side of the Government, and to-morrow with the Opposition. There were no real political principles at stake in the policy of these groups, and the only important question was that of party management and judicious bribery.

Vito Ricci was a professional politician, with whom politics was a regular trade. The Government granted him a free railway pass—as it did all the other deputies at Montecitorio—and he made money wherever he could. His position enabled him to obtain many favours for himself and his friends. The system of recommendations and parliamentary influence was one of the worst features of Italian political life, for it was generally regarded as one of the deputy’s chief duties that, for a consideration, he should help his friends and constituents to procure favours, promotions, decorations, and concessions of contracts which would not be otherwise obtainable. Political jobbery was regarded as inevitable.

Indeed, Vito Ricci lived upon the bribes he received—and lived well.

“You are silent,” remarked His Excellency, looking him straight in his face. “Why?”

“Because I have nothing to say.”

“You don’t promise to assist me!” he exclaimed. “You don’t declare your readiness to unite the groups again in our favour!”

“Because I fear it would be a useless task,” responded the other in a calm, mechanical voice.

“A useless task!” gasped the elder man, whose face was blanched. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that matters have assumed an ugly appearance,” replied the deputy. “Even the journals who have received so much money from you are silent when they ought to be loudest in your eulogy. They are evidently awaiting the advent of their new masters.”

“Then you actually anticipate a catastrophe?” exclaimed Morini hoarsely, halting before the man who had rendered him so many valuable services—the clever, unscrupulous adventurer who had several times turned the parliamentary tide in his favour.

Vito nodded slowly, his bearded face grave and hard set.

“If what you say is really true regarding Angelo, then I am fully aware of the great peril in which I stand,” the Minister exclaimed at last, his voice faltering in his agitation. “Borselli will hesitate at nothing in order to gain power.”

“Ah, I told you so a year ago, my dear Camillo,” was the deputy’s reply. “But you would not listen. He was your friend, you said—as though there was such a thing as friendship in any of the ministries.”

“I have been deceived,” admitted the other in a low voice.

A silence fell between the pair, until the deputy suddenly said hesitatingly—

“I suppose Angelo could make some rather awkward revelations—eh?”

The Minister slowly nodded.

“H’m. I thought as much from what I gathered in Milan. He would denounce you, and by reason of his big Socialist following he would come out with clean hands. He has laid his plans well, without a doubt. Sirena, the Socialist deputy for Pesaro, told me, in confidence, all that is intended.”

“They mean to strike a blow at me?”

“Yes, by criticising the army, and by bringing forward some curious story about the plans of the fortress of Tresenta in the Alps being sold to France. Do you know anything about it?”

“Yes. The plans have unfortunately been given to France by a captain named Solaro, who has been dismissed the army and sent to prison. So they intend to make political capital out of that, do they?”

“It seems so,” was the other’s answer.

Morini slowly repaced the room, his chin upon his breast, deep in thought, the dead silence being broken only by his footsteps upon the marble floor.

“Borselli has formed a plot against me—a deep, dastardly plot!” he exclaimed in a desperate tone, halting again suddenly, a determined look upon his grey features. “He intends that I shall fall. But you, Vito, can save me, if you will—you know you can. With a little of this,” and he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, “you can unite the groups as you did before, and show the country that the Minister of War still possesses the confidence of the kingdom.”

“I doubt it,” answered Ricci dubiously.

“But you will not desert me now?” implored His Excellency, laying his hand firmly upon the deputy’s shoulder. “Recollect the past, Vito. Remember the day when you, a lieutenant, prevented my horse throwing me at the manoeuvres in the Chianti. That was long ago, but both of us have had cause to congratulate ourselves upon that meeting.”

Ricci nodded. He recollected well how the Minister, then only a few months in office, had allowed him to resign from the army and complete his studies as an advocate, and how, by a clever stroke of political jobbery, he had been elected deputy for Asti, in order that he should serve the Minister as his secret agent in the Camera. He had become rich in a few years, owing to the various grants and concessions His Excellency had made to him, yet somehow his personal extravagance kept him always poor, always in want of money. He feared to calculate how much of the secret service funds had already found its way into his pocket, and yet with wily ingenuity he was there again for a grant, not from the secret service fund—for he knew well that the sum voted for the present year was already exhausted—but from Camillo Morini’s own private purse.

Vito Ricci, with all the outward appearance of a gentleman, was utterly unscrupulous. He worked in the Camera for the master who paid him best—a fact which Morini knew too well. If the Socialists were prepared to pay his price, then the man whom he had trained so cleverly and promoted to place and power would calmly throw him over, and hound him down with just as great an enthusiasm as he now supported him.

“I suppose,” he went on at last, “it is, as usual, a matter of price with you—eh, Vito?”

“Well, I must live, just as you must,” responded the other with a faint smile as he discerned how terrified the Minister had become at the information he had just given him. “I have no private income, and therefore must make money somehow.”

“You have made plenty of it,” the other remarked. “Only three months ago you had fifty thousand lire out of the secret service fund.”

“And I am now badly in want of an exactly similar amount,” the deputy declared.

“Ah! so that is the price—eh? Fifty thousand?”

“Yes. But of course I cannot guarantee success for that sum. It may cost more. I have to bribe the leaders of each of the groups in the Chamber, and I flatter myself that I am the only man who can work them in favour of the Ministry.”

“I admit that, my dear Vito. You are a marvel of tact and cunning. What a pity you did not enter the Diplomatic service! But the price. It is too high. I can’t really afford to pay so much. Ah! if you knew how heavy my personal expenses are, and how—”

“Of course,” the other cried, interrupting. “You made the same excuse last time, but you paid these screaming hounds all the same. It is surely useless to waste breath upon argument. The facts are quite plain, as I’ve already told you. If you pay for triumph you will probably receive it; if you don’t, you must fall, and Angelo Borselli will be given your portfolio. Pardon me for saying it, Camillo, but of late you have lived with your eyes shut. I have watched, and I have observed certain things. Recently you have held me aloof from you, just at a moment when I could be of greatest service. This, I confess, has hurt me. I believed you reposed confidence in me, but it seems that you mistrust me.”

“I mistrust all blackmailers,” was the Minister’s quick reply, his dark eyes flashing at the speaker.

“Because you are one yourself,” the other retorted quickly, with a grin. “You yourself taught me the gentle art of blackmailing. But no! do not let us revile each other. Rather let us face the critical situation. I tell you that you are blind—otherwise you would realise how cleverly and with what devilish ingenuity your power is being undermined. You must bribe the groups—you must pay the sum I ask. It is your duty, not only for your own sake, but for that of your family—the signora and the Signorina Mary.”

The Minister of War stood undecided. Mention of his family brought home to him the terrible responsibility upon him. Ruin, exposure, condemnation, disgrace, all stared him in the face. Yet by paying what his creature demanded he could once again steer clear of the shoals of the stormy parliamentary waters, and the country would have renewed confidence in Camillo Morini.

He knew that he was—as indeed he had been for years—entirely at the mercy of this man whom he had trained as his secret agent both in the Camera and out of it.

“Well,” he answered at last in a deep, hoarse, broken voice, “and suppose I pay? What then?”

“Then I shall do my best,” was Vito’s response. “I can’t, of course, be certain that I shall succeed, but as the groups require my influence in another quarter, they will probably render me assistance in this.”

Morini was pacing the room again. His appearance was that of a man filled with apprehension. He saw that the situation was most critical, and recognised that ruin was before him. He glanced across at his writing-table, when his lips compressed and a strange, half-triumphant smile overspread his grey countenance.

“Very well,” he exclaimed, and his sigh ran through the great old chamber. “I suppose you must have the money to throw to those howling dogs. Call at the Ministry to-morrow and you shall have a draft.”

“For sixty thousand,” said the deputy quickly. “Better be on the safe side. I shall have to distribute money freely this time, you know.”

But the Minister refused, knowing that the extra ten thousand lire would go into Vito’s pocket. Then they argued, long and hotly, Ricci, the accomplished blackmailer, refusing openly to lend his influence for any less sum, until at length the man who was so completely in his power was reluctantly compelled to yield—for the sake of his wife and Mary, he said in sheer desperation.

“And now that you are again reposing confidence in me, my dear friend,” said the deputy, “let me give you a word of warning.”

“Speak. I am all attention.”

“Last season there was here in Rome a man named Dubard. You introduced us one night when I dined here. I have since heard that he is aspiring to your daughter’s hand.”

“Well?”

“Watch him, and you will discover something that will surprise you. I shall say no more. The future is in your own hands.”

Chapter Eleven.

The Secret Agent.

A fat waiter conducted a well-dressed, lady-like girl up the great marble staircase of the Hôtel Brun, in Bologna, rapped lightly at the door of a private sitting-room, and ushered her in.

Angelo Borselli, who rose to meet her, bowed politely, with a smile on his sallow face, and welcomed his visitor.

She was about twenty-three, with very dark hair, fine big eyes, and a well-formed figure, rather stout, as are most of the Bolognese.

“I had given you up, signorina,” he said. “I have waited for you over an hour.”

“I could not get away before,” she replied somewhat timidly. “At home they seemed suspicious, and I had the greatest difficulty in coming here.” And she smiled, a faint flush suffusing her sunburnt cheeks.

“You came in a closed cab?”

“No, I went to the station and drove here in the hotel omnibus, as though I had arrived by train. I thought it would excite less suspicion.”

“Excellent!” laughed the Under-Secretary, glancing to see that the door was closed. “You are clever—always clever, Filoména. You will make a first-class agent of the Ministry some day,” he added approvingly.

She laughed as she seated herself in the chair he politely offered, and laid the little fan she carried upon the table, replying—

“I always do my best. But my mother watches so closely that I have to be most cautious.”

“You have done exceedingly well,” declared the schemer. “In this last affair you have rendered me the greatest assistance. Without you we should have failed. But I have invited you here to learn all the details. I was in Paris at the time, and all I have gathered is from the official reports of the court-martial. They did not call you up to Turin, I hope?”

“No. They took my evidence in secret at the barracks here.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“I described exactly what had happened. How the captain had a year ago declared his love for me, and how he came to Bologna from Paris.”

“And what else?”

“I described how I had received in confidence the mysterious packet from him, with instructions to hand it to a friend of his, a Frenchman, who would make an appointment to meet me. What I told the three officers who took down my statement seemed to create a great impression upon them.”

“Of course it would, because it is your statement that has condemned Solaro.”

“Condemned!” she gasped in blank surprise. “What, has he already been tried?”

“Yes, and dismissed the army.”

“But he is—”

“There are no buts, signorina,” he quickly interrupted in a hard voice. “If you render secret service to the Ministry you must never reason as to the why or the wherefore. Always rest assured that we are acting solely for the benefit and safety of Italy.”

She thought deeply for a moment.

“When I met the Frenchman by appointment at a seat in the Montagnola garden, and gave him the packet, he broke it open, and I saw that some tracings were inside.”

“And what did the Frenchman say?” inquired Borselli. “Oh, he was very polite,” she laughed, blushing slightly. “We walked about the garden for nearly half an hour; for he was a pleasant man, who spoke Italian exceedingly well—evidently an officer.”

“Most of the men in the French secret service are recruited from the army or the detective police,” he remarked. “But I intend that Italy, like Russia, shall in future rely upon the shrewdness of clever women like yourself. This Frenchman said nothing regarding Solaro?”

“He merely remarked that he supposed the captain trusted me implicitly, and I, of course, replied in the affirmative. He wrote to me from the Hôtel National in Lucerne, making the appointment in the Montagnola, indicating a certain seat, which showed that he was well acquainted with Bologna.”

“Did he mention me?”

“No. He urged me, however, to deny all knowledge of the mysterious packet if taxed with receiving it. From that I concluded that he was in ignorance of how the whole affair had been arranged.”

“Of course,” he answered, with a laugh. “It would never do for France to learn our motives. We allow them to have the secrets of Tresenta because we have other ends in view. What they are you will know later.”

“And in the meantime Felice Solaro is dismissed the army in disgrace?”

The sallow-faced man nodded. He did not tell her that he had been sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment, for he knew how soft-hearted women are towards the innocent.

“Do you know,” she said presently, “I have a suspicion which I think I ought to tell you. It is that the address upon the envelope which contained the packet of papers was not in Captain Solaro’s own handwriting.”

He looked quickly into her face, frowning slightly and saying—

“Suspicions do not concern you, signorina. When I give you orders, it is for you first to execute them as secretly and expeditiously as possible, and secondly to have a care that your association with me is never discovered. You understand? I am merely Filipo Florena, shipping agent, of Genoa, and you write to me always to my office in the Via Balbi. Should you ever be in real peril, you have that code address by which a telegram will find me, either at home or abroad.”

She saw that her remark caused him annoyance, therefore she began to apologise and declare her readiness to serve the War Department of her country in every way possible.

“As I have already said,” he remarked in a quiet voice, obtaining her permission to smoke, “you have shown yourself in every way adapted to the responsible office I intend that you shall hold. You come of good family, although at present in straitened circumstances; you possess good looks, and you are a perfect model of all the virtues. Your mother, the widow of my old friend, Colonel Nodari, would, of course, object to the capacity in which you have once or twice served Italy. Yet it is for the honour and safety of your country, recollect. You are an agent of the Ministry of War, and being in its employ should act obediently, without expressing any surprise at the information you are asked to obtain, or attempting to deduct any logical conclusion.”

She sat silent, listening to the advice the schemer gave her. Her late father, a colonel of cavalry, had been the Under-Secretary’s friend, and the latter had been a frequent guest at their house. Indeed, she had known General Borselli ever since she had been a child, and of late, by clever ruses, this man had contrived to use her quick woman’s intelligence for his own ends. In recognition of her services, he had sent her small sums of money, which she found very useful for her dress bills, and on one or two occasions had sent her little trinkets, which she had locked up carefully from her mother’s prying eyes.

The Under-Secretary for War, far-seeing and deeply scheming always, recognised in her a very valuable assistant. She was known to the officers of a dozen garrisons, for she had been reared in the military atmosphere, therefore she was enabled to discover for him facts about persons that it would otherwise have been impossible for the Ministry to obtain.

A dozen times had she been successful in elucidating various sources of discontent, and gaining other information of greatest value to the War Office in Rome, information which Borselli used for his own ends and with the purpose of undermining the power of the Minister Camillo Morini. As the dead colonel’s daughter, and very popular on account of her bright disposition and good looks, she was the last person suspected of collecting that information which so mysteriously found its way to headquarters. And yet, under Borselli’s secret tuition, she had become as clever and ingenious an agent as any the Government employed.

Truth to tell, however, the part she had played in the Solaro affair, now that she realised how the unfortunate captain had been entrapped, caused her a deep pang of conscience. Several months before, in that very room, she had met the Under-Secretary by appointment, and he had, after some preliminaries, remarked upon her acquaintance with Captain Solaro, whereupon she blushingly explained that they had known each other for some years, ever since her father was in garrison on the frontier at Ventimiglia. He put some direct questions to her, and discovered that, although they corresponded frequently, she was in no way in love with him. Then he gave her instructions how to act, declaring that the captain was strongly suspected of secret dealing with a French agent, and that if she received a sealed packet by post from the Alpine garrison she was to hold it, and deal with it exactly in the manner which the captain ordered, but in the meantime she was also to communicate with the supposed shipping agent in the Via Balbi in Genoa—himself. In brief, she was to appear very friendly with the captain, inspire him with every confidence, and yet betray him into the hands of the authorities. To her, the suggestion was a very unwelcome one, but Borselli urged her to carry out the delicate negotiation from patriotic motives—as daughter of a brave soldier who had served Italy so faithfully and well in the struggles of the sixties. It was this claptrap appeal to her loyalty that had caused her to become a secret agent of the Under-Secretary, which had now resulted, she knew, in the disgrace of an innocent man.

Why had the trap been baited so cunningly? she wondered within herself. There was some hidden motive in the expulsion of Solaro from the army; what could it be? Surely that packet she had given the polite Frenchman had not really contained plans, for it was not likely that the War Office would actually connive at its own betrayal to France?

“I know that this recent little affair in the north has puzzled you, signorina,” the general remarked slowly, his eyes fixed upon her. “But you will see that we have right on our side one day. Act with care, exercise a wise discretion always, and you will not only be able to assist us, but you will, in future, receive a secret payment from the Ministry of seven thousand lire per annum, together with a fair allowance for expenses. The first payment has already been made to you in recognition of your tact towards Solaro,” he added, and taking from his wallet a slip of paper, he handed it to her, adding, “This is a draft on the Bank of Italy for the amount. Leave it in the bank if you wish—you will probably find it useful one day. You see it is upon the private account of Filipo Florena.”

She, wondering, held the draft between her fingers. It was the first she had ever seen, and she told him so.

“Put it away in your writing-desk or your jewel-case. And when you want it you can cash it on sight at any branch of the Bank of Italy—or, indeed, at any moneychanger’s.”

She folded it carefully, and slowly placed it in her purse, while he, glancing at her furtively and seeing that possession of such a sum had given her confidence, suddenly exclaimed—

“And now let me tell you the real reason why I am here.”

Chapter Twelve.

Concerns some Curious Instructions.

“Well?” she asked, as he paused and looked at her. “Why are you in Bologna?”

“I am here,” he answered, “for the purpose of sending you to England.”

“To England!” she echoed, half rising from her chair.

“Yes. You speak English quite well, therefore I have obtained for you a situation as governess in a highly respectable and wealthy family,” he said. “You remember you asked me a year ago to arrange that you might leave home and become your own mistress, for you told me you were tired of living on your mother’s narrow means.”

“But I—”

“As I have already said, signorina,” he interrupted, “there are no buts where the safety of Italy is concerned. You are wanted to go to England for two reasons: the change will be beneficial to you, and you will render a service to the Ministry.”

“Then I am to accept the post with an ulterior object in view?” she remarked quickly.

“Of course,” he replied, with a smile. “There are certain matters of which we desire information, and it lies with you to supply it. You are well educated, a good linguist, and just the stamp of young lady who goes as governess in a wealthy family. Therefore, the post being vacant, I at once secured it for you by giving you a very strong recommendation.”

“I would rather remain in Italy,” the girl implored, recognising almost for the first time how entirely she was in that man’s hands.

“No,” he declared. “They expect you in England next week. The young lady, your pupil, is to begin her studies at once—while you will commence to study other matters on our behalf,” he added, his dark face relaxing into a meaning grin.

She was silent, twisting her handkerchief nervously in her gloved hand. She realised that so cleverly during the past three years had this man weaved a net about her she was now bound to obey him. But she had never dreamed that the services she rendered to the Ministry of War were to take her abroad—to England.

There, in Bologna, her status as the daughter of a colonel who had served with distinction and had died a commendatore gave her the entrée into what was a select circle of society for a provincial town, but strange perhaps to English ideas—a society composed mostly of needy counts and seedy countesses, marquises who lived in bare, half-furnished palaces upon the remnant of what past generations of gamblers and spendthrifts had left them, and government employees, together with the officers of the garrison. It was a degrading thing that she should go out as a governess, yet if it were really necessary, she must, she knew, bow to the inevitable.

At first she resisted his request, urging that it was impossible. She had only made the suggestion as a joke; she was ready to serve the Ministry of War at home in her own small way, but to go abroad, to become a secret agent of Italy in England, was quite another matter.

He smoked on in silence, standing at the window and pretending to be interested in the people passing in the street below.

“My dear signorina,” he exclaimed at last, turning his thin, unprepossessing face to her, and looking straight at her with his dark, crafty eyes, “I quite admit that to leave your home and friends is not a pleasant outlook. But you see it is imperative—absolutely imperative. You can render us most valuable assistance. Indeed, we are relying entirely upon you.”

“My mother will never consent to it,” she assured him.

“Leave the signora to me,” he laughed drily. “She will believe that you have become companion to an English lady. I will arrange it all. You know what entire confidence the signora has in me!”

Filoména smiled. This man, who held such a high office in the Ministry, had always been a friend of her family. Indeed, the colonel’s widow was greatly indebted to him, for, through him, the War Office now paid her a small sum annually in recognition of her late husband’s services to the kingdom, a payment which was not legal, but which had been ordered by Borselli and made law by decree of the Minister Morini himself.

“You will have a very pleasant time of it in England, I assure you,” he went on. “As governess you will, of course, be treated as an underling, but remain patient, watchful, and attentive always to your instructions. Remember that upon you depends much, that you may render greater service to Italy than even her ambassadors. Knowledge is power, is an old and trite saying—and knowledge is in no place more powerful than the Ministry of War.”

He treated her with a certain fatherly solicitude and confidence which impressed her. Four years ago, when she left the convent school at Ravenna and resumed the acquaintance formed in her childhood, he had gradually taken her into his confidence. He required certain information regarding certain officers in the Bologna garrison which with her woman’s subtle way of learning secrets she could obtain, while on his part he was ready to further her interests, to obtain that very necessary income for her mother—to act, in fact, as her friend, and to place her, in secret, under the protection of the Ministry of War. But secrecy was to be observed—secrecy in everything. To him alone was she to report, by letter or verbally. She was to act the spy on his behalf with cunning, care, and caution.

In the various tasks he had set her she had acquitted herself well, more especially in the mysterious affair of Captain Solaro, the man who, to his cost, had fallen in love with her. At heart she hated herself for the despicable part she had been compelled to play, yet she had become Borselli’s spy in order that she and her mother should receive that small but very necessary pension from the War Department.

In character she was one of those silent, watchful women whom nothing escapes, and who note every look and every gesture—one of the few women, indeed, who can keep a secret. Borselli, the man who used the Minister Morini as his cat’s-paw, and was as cunning an adventurer as there was in all the length of Italy, had recognised these qualities as those of a secret agent of the most successful type, and therefore had resolved to turn to account his ascendency over her.

She had taken up her little fan and was fanning herself with quick nervousness. The evening was a stifling one in September, for in that month Bologna, with its long streets of stucco porticos, is a veritable oven.

“The address of your new mistress is here,” remarked the Under-Secretary, producing a card from his pocket-book, whereon was written in pencil in an English hand: “Mrs Charles Fitzroy, 186, Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, W.”

“It is in the best and most fashionable part of London,” he added. “And they have a fine place out in the country. The child whom you are to teach is aged eight—a little friend of mine. So you see I have arranged it all for you. You have only to go there and commence your duties.”

She shrugged her shoulders. The idea of taking a situation as governess did not appeal to her. She would, indeed, have refused point-blank if she dared, only refusal might mean the cessation of her mother’s slender income.

She knew Angelo Borselli’s wife and son, and had visited them in Rome. The Signora Borselli was a stout woman of rather coarse type, proud of her position, fond of crude colours and a dazzling show. Her carriage in Rome was painted a bright grass green, and the livery of her servants was a blue-grey with yellow cockades. She dressed expensively, but without taste, as might be expected of one who was daughter of a straw hat manufacturer at Sancasciano. The son was aged eighteen, a superb young cub, who was now at the University of Ferrara studying law. Filoména Nodari was of gentle birth, and therefore despised the woman who had treated her so patronisingly. She looked upon Angelo Borselli as her dead father’s most devoted friend and her mother’s benefactor, but the wife of the Under-Secretary she held in disdain as an uncouth countrywoman aspiring to a great position—as indeed she really was.

“England is a long way off, signore,” she remarked in a blank voice, after a long pause, the silence being unbroken save for the strains of the military band playing outside in the piazzi, as it does every evening in summer. “Cannot you send someone else?” she begged.

“There is no one so well adapted as yourself,” he declared. “You know English and French, and could act the part of governess to perfection. I admit that to accept a menial office is not really pleasant, yet you must recollect that as a servant of the Ministry you are acting your part for the benefit of Italy—just as your poor father so valiantly acted his part through all his life.”

She sighed, and lapsed again into thought. Like a thousand other girls living at home upon slender means, she had often longed for a change of life and for sight of those foreign places about which she had read so much—and most of all of London. And here, he pointed out, was an opportunity of serving Italy abroad.

She believed all that he told her—how the information she furnished was necessary for the successful conduct of the Ministry in order to thwart the machinations of Italy’s enemies. She had no idea that her actions and inquiries, directed by him, were always with one end in view—to oust from office the Minister himself.

On the one hand, Filoména Nodari was extremely clever and far-seeing, a veritable genius in the discovery of secrets, while on the other she was as wax in the hands of this man whom for so many years she had regarded as her friend.

“Am I to write to this person, my employer?” she asked with a slight sigh, still holding the card in her hand.

“Only to announce the day and hour of your arrival in London—at the station of Charing Cross, remember. I told Mrs Fitzroy who and what you are—that you are tired of sleepy Bologna, that you were an officer’s daughter, and all the rest of it. Your wages are seven hundred francs a year, or twenty-four pounds in English money, with your railway fare paid to London, and your return fare if you don’t suit. But,” he added, with a meaning laugh, “you will suit, signorina—you must suit, recollect?”

She shrugged her shoulders dubiously, saying—

“Of course, if it is really necessary, I will go. But I fear I may fail.”

“Not if you are determined to succeed,” he assured her. “You have good looks, and they go such a very long way. That is why a pretty woman is so successful as a secret agent.”

She flushed slightly at his flattery.

“Well, and what am I to do? What information do you require?” she asked, speaking almost mechanically and gazing fixedly across the room.

“The facts, simply told, are these,” he said, tossing his cigarette into the ash-tray and halting before her. “This Mrs Fitzroy is the wife of a Mr Charles Fitzroy, a London fur merchant, and Alderman of the City, and sister to a man named Morgan-Mason, a member of the English House of Commons. This man you must watch. Recollect his name. Although he is a bachelor and lives in an apartment in Westminster, he spends much of his time at his sister’s house; hence you will have an opportunity of forming his acquaintance and keeping observation upon his movements. He is clever, crafty, and quite unscrupulous, therefore be cautious in all your movements. You must try and seize an opportunity to get a glimpse through his private papers if possible, and see if there are any documents in Italian of an unusual character.”

“Then you suspect him to be an enemy of Italy?” she remarked seriously.

“We suspect that this blatant, pompous orator, who is now gathering such a following in the House of Commons, is forming certain plans to undermine our strength, to turn English opinion against an Italian alliance. Therefore it is necessary that we should be in possession of all the details, and you alone can obtain knowledge of the truth. He does not know Italian, a fact which gives you distinct advantage. Watch him very carefully, and report each week to Genoa; while, on my part, if I have any important instructions to send, I shall address the letter to the Poste Restante at Charing Cross—which is opposite the railway station. Your aim must be to find out all you can; to discover with whom this man is in association in Italy, remembering that whatever secret information, or more especially any documentary evidence you can secure, will be of the utmost service to us. Go, my dear signorina,” he added, placing his hand upon her shoulder, “go to London, and carry with you my very best wishes for success.”

The woman sat silent, thinking over his instructions, while through the open window on the evening air came the strains of military music.

And as he watched her his thin, sallow face slowly relaxed into a sinister smile, when he reflected within himself the real reason why he was sending the pretty spy to England.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Villa San Donato.

The sky was aflame in all the crimson glory of the Tuscan sunset.

The Angelus of a sudden clashed forth from the high castellated tower of the village church away over the Arno, winding deep in its beautiful fertile valley, that veritable paradise of green vale and purple mountain, and was echoed by a dozen other bells clanging discordantly from the hillsides, while from afar came up the deep-toned note of the big bell in the campanile of brown old Florence.

It was the hour of the venti-tre, and those patient toilers, the contadini, in the vineyards, who had been busy since dawn plucking the rich red grapes that hung everywhere in such luscious profusion, crossed themselves with a murmured prayer to the Madonna, and prodded their ox-teams homeward with the last load for the presses. All day long “babbo,” with his wife and children of all ages, had worked on beneath that fiery sun, singing as they laboured; for the grape harvest was a rich one, the wine would be abundant, and they, sharing half the profits with the padrone in lieu of payment, would receive a good round sum.

Like most of the great estates in Tuscany, that of San Donato, the property of His Excellency Camillo Morini, was held by the peasantry on what is known as the messeria system, by which the whole of the land was divided into a number of fields, or poderi, half the produce of which was retained by the mezzadro, or peasant who cultivated the soil, and the other half went to the landlord as rent. The poderi varied in size, but were usually about thirty acres in extent, each with its contadino’s house colour-washed in pale pink, and upon the wall, painted in distemper, a heraldic shield bearing the bull’s head erased argent, the arms of the proprietor.

The estate of San Donato, with its huge old fourteenth-century villa—a great castellated place with high, square towers, that would in England be called a castle, on the crest of a hill—and its fattoria, or residence of the bailiff, another great rambling place with its oil mills and wine-presses, in the valley below, was one of the largest in Tuscany.

The villa, with its long façade of many windows, its flanking towers, its enormous salons of the cinquecento, its splendid frescoes, its antique marbles, its grey old terraces and broken statuary, was indeed in a delightful situation. Perched on the summit of a lofty and broken eminence, it looked down upon the vale of the Arno and commanded Florence with all its domes, towers, and palaces, the villas that encircle it and the roads that lead to it. The recesses, swells, and breaks of the hill on which it stood were covered with groves of pines, ilex, and cypress. Behind, deep below, lay quiet old Pistoja in the distance, and still farther off swelled the giant Apennines.

From the villa ran a broad open road, straight to the ancient gate of the little walled village of San Donato itself—a remote, ancient place, almost the same to-day as when in the days of Dante it guarded the valley against the incursions of the Pisans. From its high brown walls, now crumbling to decay, the view was, like that from the villa of its lord, without rival in all Italy. Its tiny piazza was grass-grown, and outside the walls, in a shady cypress grove, stood a ruined calvary with some of Gerino’s wonderful frescoes.

San Donato, though only seven miles from Florence as the crow flies, was an un-get-at-able place, inaccessible to the crowd of inquisitive English, and therefore unchanged and its people unspoilt. Indeed, in winter a week often went by without communication with the world below; for the post did not reach there, and the little place was self-supporting. The people, descendants of the men who had shot their arrows from those narrow slits in the walls, were proud that they had the great Minister of War for their lord, and that the estate was not like that adjoining, going to decay through the neglect and gambling propensities of its owner, who had not visited it for twenty years! On the contrary, San Donato, still almost feudal, was prosperous under a generous padrone, and the few weeks each year which the Minister and his family spent there was always a time of rejoicing with the whole countryside. Then the contadini made excuse for many festas, and there was much dancing, playing of mandolines, and chanting of siomelli. The padrone delighted to see his people happy, and the signorina was always so good to the poor and the afflicted.

Out upon the great wide stone terrace that ran the whole length of the villa, where spread such a wonderful panorama of river and mountain, Mary was standing beneath an arbour of trailing vines; for even though the venti-tre was ringing, the sun’s rays were still too strong to stand in them bareheaded. She presented a slim, neat figure, delightfully cool in her plain white washing gown with a bow of pale blue tulle at the throat, yet, as her face was turned towards the far-distant heights of Vallombrosa, there was in her handsome countenance a look of deep anxiety.

Jules Dubard, leaning against the grey old wall at her side, noticed it and wondered. He too was dressed all in white, in a suit of linen so necessary in the blazing Tuscan summer, and as he folded his arms he smiled within himself at the effect of his words upon her.

“But you don’t really anticipate that my father’s enemies are plotting his downfall?” she asked seriously turning her great dark eyes upon him.

“Unfortunately, I fear they are,” was his reply. “What I heard in Paris is sufficient to show that here, in Italy, you are on the eve of some grave political crisis.”

“For what reason?” she inquired earnestly. “Tell me all you know, for your information may be of the greatest use to my father. I will write to him to-night,” she added, in a voice full of apprehension.

“No. Do not write,” he urged. “You will see him in a week or ten days, and then you can tell him the rumours I have heard. It seems,” he went on, “that there is a group of Socialists fiercely antagonistic to the Government, and that they have formed a most ingenious conspiracy to secure its downfall. Other men, rivals of the present Ministry, are eager for office and for the pecuniary advantages to be thereby obtained.”

“What is the character of the conspiracy?” she inquired seriously. “Perhaps my father can thwart it.”

“It is to be hoped that he can, but I confess I doubt it very much,” was his slow answer. “Downfall seems imminent. Indeed, a friend of mine, whom I met the other day in Biffi’s café, in Milan, was discussing it openly. It seems that our French secret service has been at work on your Alpine frontier, and that the plans of the new fortress at Tresenta have been sold by one of the officers of the garrison. Out of this the Opposition intend to make capital, by charging your father with neglect, even connivance at the traitorous dealings with France, and thereby hounding him from office.”

“But it is unjust!” cried the girl wildly. “It is disgraceful! If the spies of France have been successful, it is surely not my father’s fault, but the fault of the officer who prepared and sold them. What is his name?”

“I hear it is Solaro.”

“Solaro!” she gasped hoarsely. “Not Captain Felice Solaro, of the Alpine Regiment?”

“Yes, signorina, that was the name.”

She stood staring at him, utterly amazed and mystified. Felice Solaro!—a traitor!

“But it is impossible!” she declared quickly. “There must surely be some mistake!”

“I heard it on the very best authority,” was the young Frenchman’s calm answer. “A court-martial has, it seems, been held with closed doors, and as a result the man Solaro has been dismissed and sentenced to imprisonment for a term of fifteen years.”

“Dismissed the army!” she exclaimed blankly. “Then the court-martial found him guilty?”

“Certainly. But did you know the man?”

She hesitated a moment, then faltered—

“Yes, I knew him once. But what you tell me seems utterly impossible. He was the very last man to betray Italy.”

“They say that a woman induced him to prepare the plans,” remarked the Frenchman. “But how far that is true I have no idea.”

Mary’s face was paler than before. Her brows were contracted, and in her dark, luminous eyes was a look of quick determination.

“Is my father aware of all this?” she demanded.

“Undoubtedly. He, of course, must have signed the decree dismissing Solaro from the army. I believe the matter is being kept as quiet as possible, but unfortunately the Socialists have somehow obtained knowledge of the true facts, and will go to the country with the cry that Italy, under the present Cabinet, is in danger.” Then, after a slight pause, he went on, “I look upon your father as my friend, you know, signorina, therefore I think he ought to know the plot being formed against him. They intend to make certain distinct charges against him, of bribery, of receiving money from contractors who have supplied inferior goods, and of being directly responsible for the recent reverses in Abyssinia. If they do—” Pausing, he elevated his shoulders without concluding the sentence.

“But it is impossible, Count Dubard, that the man you name could have sold our military secrets?”

“You know him sufficiently well, then, to be aware of his loyalty?” sniffed her companion suspiciously.

“I know that he would never be guilty of an act of treason,” she answered quickly. “Therefore if he really has been convicted of such an offence, he must be the victim himself of some conspiracy.”

The count regarded her heated declaration as the involuntary demonstration of a bond of friendship, and looked into her eyes in undisguised wonder. She stood facing him, her white hand upon the broken marble of an ancient vase, yellow and worn smooth by time.

“You appear to repose the utmost confidence in him,” he remarked, surprised. “Why?”

“Because I am certain that he has fallen the victim of a plot,” she declared, her face hard set and desperate. “If those enemies of my father’s are endeavouring so cleverly to oust him from office, is it not quite feasible that they have laid the blame purposely upon Captain Solaro?”

“Why purposely?”

She paused, and again his eyes met hers.

“Because they knew that if Captain Solaro were accused,” she said slowly, “my father, as Minister, would show him no clemency.”

“Why?”

“There is a reason,” she responded hoarsely, adding, “I know that he is innocent—he must be innocent.”

“But he has been tried by a competent court-martial, and found guilty,” remarked her companion.

“With closed doors?”

“And is not that the usual procedure in cases of grave offence? It would never do for the public to learn that the loyalty of Italy’s officers had been found wanting. That would shake the confidence of the country.”

“And yet my father’s enemies are preparing to strike a crushing blow at him by making capital out of it?” she exclaimed. “Ah yes. I see—I see it all!” she cried. “It is a vile, despicable conspiracy which has sent to prison in disgrace an innocent man—a second case of Dreyfus!”

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders but made no reply.

“You said that a woman’s name had been mentioned in connection with the affair,” she went on. “Was her name Nodari—Filoména Nodari—and does she not live in Bologna?”

Her companion’s lips pressed themselves together, but so slightly that she did not notice the almost imperceptible expression of annoyance upon his face.

“I do not know,” he declared. “I merely heard that there was a woman in the case, and that she had given certain evidence before the military court that left no doubt of the guilt of the accused. But,” he added, half apologetically, “I had no idea, signorina, that Solaro was a friend of yours.”

“Oh, he is not a friend, only an acquaintance,” she protested.

“Then why are you so intensely interested in his welfare?” he inquired.

“Because I have certain reasons. An injustice has been done, and I shall at once ask my father to have the most searching inquiry made. He will do so, if it is my wish,” she added confidently.

“Then you intend to champion the cause of the man who is accused of being a traitor to Italy?” remarked the wily Parisian, regarding her furtively as he spoke. “I fear, signorina, if you adopt any such course you will only place in the hands of your father’s enemies a further weapon against him. No; if you desire to assist His Excellency at this very critical moment, you must refrain from taking any action which they could construe into your own desire, or your father’s intention, to liberate the man who is convicted of having sold his country to its enemy.”

“But it is unjust! He is innocent.”

“Be that how it may, your duty surely is to help your father, not to act in a manner which would convince the public that he had connived at the sale of the military secrets of Tresenta.”

Her dark eyes fixed themselves upon the distant towers and cupolas of Florence, down where the grey mists were now rising. They were filled with tears, and her chest beneath her laces heaved slowly and then fell again.

And the man lounging at her side with studied grace laughed within himself, triumphant at his own clever diplomacy.

Chapter Fourteen.

In the Silence of Night.

Dinner at the Villa San Donato was always a stately meal, served in that huge, lofty sala di pranzo, or dining-room, with its marble floor, its high prison-like windows closely barred with iron, its antique frescoed walls, and old low settees covered with dark green damask running right round the apartment.

In that enormous echoing room nothing had been touched for two hundred years. The old oak furniture had been well-preserved, the great high-backed chairs, covered with leather and studded with big brass nails, the fine carved buffet, and the graven shield over the door bearing the arms of the princely house that had once owned the place, all spoke of a brilliant magnificence of days bygone when those huge halls had echoed to the tread of armed men, and the lord of San Donato entertained his retainers and bravoes with princely generosity. The villa was so huge that the guest easily lost himself in its ramifications, its long corridors and huge salons each leading from one to the other. Like all the fortified villas of the cinquecento, every window on the ground floor was closely barred, and this, combined with the bareness of the rooms, gave to them an aspect of austerity. Over the whole place was a comfortless air, like that of most Italian houses, save in Madame Morini’s rose boudoir, and the little sitting-room which Mary had arranged in English style, and called her own.

In the great dining-room there was sitting accommodation for two hundred, and yet on that evening the party only numbered six: Her Excellency, Mary, Jules Dubard, an English schoolfellow of Mary’s named Violet Walters, the fair-haired daughter of an eminent KC, and two sisters, named Anna and Eva Fry, daughters of an English merchant at Genoa whom Her Excellency had invited up for the vintage.

The voices of the little party echoed strangely in that enormous old apartment, and from time to time a peal of laughter came back from the corners of the place with weird and startling repetition. The party had that day made an excursion over to another estate which the Minister possessed above the Arno, at Empoli, where the vintage was in full swing. The trip had been delightful, and the peasantry had received them with that deep homage and generous hospitality which the Tuscan contadini extend to their lord.

All were in good spirits except Mary, who, in a gown of pale carnation pink, sat conversing mechanically in English with her friend Violet, a pretty girl, about a year her senior, but within herself reflecting deeply upon what the man sitting opposite her had told her when out upon the terrace an hour before.

Her father was in peril; it was her duty to warn him. Felice Solaro had fallen a victim of some dastardly plot, but for what reason and how was an utter mystery.

She longed to explain to her father all that the count had told her, but in reply to a question, her mother had said that she did not expect him to leave Rome for at least a fortnight. Therefore she remained thoughtful, apprehensive, and undecided how to act. At first she had contemplated explaining everything to her mother, but on reflection she saw that there were certain reasons why her anxiety should not be aroused. Her Excellency was in very delicate health, and while in London had consulted a physician, who had told her that she must have as little mental worry as possible. For that reason Mary resolved to hide the serious truth from her.

Dubard, with his studied elegance of manner, was entertaining the ladies with droll stories, for he was something of a humourist, and essentially a ladies’ man. Once or twice as Mary’s eyes met his he saw in them an expression of deep anxiety, and of course knew well the reason.

The Fry girls were particularly interested in the young Frenchman, of whom they had heard as a new star in the social firmament in Rome during the previous season, but, being provincials, they had not met him. Both were dark and fairly good-looking; Eva aged about twenty-one, and Anna two years her senior. Their father, Henry Fry, was an exporter of marble and of olive oil, who, like his father before him, carried on business in Genoa, and had amassed a considerable fortune; but Mrs Fry’s death three years previously had left the girls to shift for themselves in the social world, and their mother having long been an intimate friend of Her Excellency, the latter each year invited the girls up to San Donato as company for Mary.

Dinner ended at last, and the little party passed through the three great salons lit by the thousand wax candles in their antique sconces, into the minor drawing-room beyond, which was always used of an evening because it was cosier and small enough to be carpeted.

The Fry girls were clever mandolinists, and taking up their instruments at Madame Morini’s invitation, played and sang that sweet old Tuscan serenade—

“Io ti amerò finchè le Rondinelle Avranno fatto il nido dell’ amore; Io ti amero fin che nel Cielo stelle Vi saran sempre a illuminarmi il cora. Io ti amerò, Io ti amerò, Fin che avrò vita Mio bel tesor!”

As they sang, Dubard stood beside Mary and looked into her dark eyes for some responding glance.

But there was none. She was not thinking of him, but of that unfortunate man convicted of treason, disgraced and languishing in gaol—and of Filoména Nodari, the woman who had foully betrayed him.

“You are sad to-night,” he managed to whisper to her as they turned together from the singers.

She nodded, but no response escaped her lips.

Her feelings towards Jules Dubard were mixed ones. She found him a very pleasant and entertaining companion, always courteous, elegant of manner, and excessively polite—the kind of man who at once attracted a woman. And yet somehow, when she came to calmly analyse her regard for him, she found it to be based merely upon his attractive personality; or, in other words, it was little more than a mere flirtation, which may be forgiven of every woman who is courted and flattered as she was.

True, he had, in a kind of joking manner, more than once declared his love for her. But she had always affected to treat his words as empty and meaningless, and to assume that they were good friends and nothing more. At heart, however, she knew that both her parents would be pleased to see her marry this man; for not only would she be the wife of a wealthy landowner, but would also obtain the ancient and honoured title of Comtesse Dubard.

Sometimes, in the secrecy of her room, she sat and reflected upon the whole situation, but on each occasion she arrived at the same distinct and unalterable conclusion. She admired Jules; she was fond of his society, and he was, even though his Gallic elegance of manner was a trifle forced, nevertheless a perfect gentleman. But surely there was a great breach between admiration and actual affection.

What he had told her out on the terrace in the sundown, however, showed plainly that he was really her father’s friend. And yet, strangely enough, he did not wish her to alarm her father unduly. Why? she wondered. If that grave peril actually existed he should surely be forewarned!

“What I told you this evening has, I fear, upset you, signorina,” Dubard said in a low, sympathetic voice. “But do not be disquieted. I will assist your father in thwarting this conspiracy against him. Do not tell Her Excellency a word. It would be harmful for her, you know.”

“I shall say nothing,” was her reply. “But,” she added, “I cannot help feeling anxious, especially as you suggest that I shall not write to my father and warn him.”

“Oh, write if you wish,” he exclaimed quickly. “Only recollect all that I have told you is only hearsay. Therefore, I think it unwise to arouse your father’s apprehensions if the rumour of the conspiracy is baseless. No?” he went on. “Remain patient, and leave everything to me.”

She sighed, without replying; then, in order to reassure her, he whispered, at the same time looking into her eyes intensely—

“You know, Mary, that I will do my very best—for your sake. You know me sufficiently well for that.”

He would have continued his protestations of affection had not the singers at that moment ceased, and they were both compelled to rejoin the little group, much to Mary’s relief, for at that moment she had no thought beyond her father’s peril. She did not exactly mistrust the count, yet some strange intuition told her that his solicitude for her father’s safety was feigned. What made her think so she knew not, but she experienced that evening a strange, unaccountable presage of evil.

He asked her to sing, and then, being pressed by the others, she responded, chanting one of those old stornelli of the countryfolk which she was so fond of collecting and writing in a book, the weird love-chants that have been handed down from the Middle Ages. It was one she had taken down from the lips of a contadino at Castellina a few days previously—

“Giovanottino dal cappel di paglia, Non ti voglio amar più, non n’ho più voglia... Voglio piuttosto vincer la battaglia!”

And while she sang, Violet Walters, standing with Dubard, looked at him with an expression which told him that he had created a favourable impression upon her. Thus the evening passed quietly, until the bell over the private chapel of the castle tolled eleven, and the guests rose and parted to their rooms, being conducted through the long ghostly corridors by the domestics with candles.

Mary allowed her Italian maid Teresa to brush her long brown tresses before the mirror, as was her habit, but the faithful servant remarked in surprise upon the signorina’s preoccupied look.

“I’m very tired, that’s all,” Mary replied, and as quickly as possible dismissed the girl and locked her door.

Her room she had furnished in English style with furniture she had chosen in London. It was a delightful little place, bright with clean chintzes and a carpet of pastel blue. Upon the toilet-table was a handsome set of silver-mounted bottles and brushes, a birthday gift from her devoted father, and around the bed, suspended like a canopy from the ceiling, were the long white mosquito curtains.

For a long time she sat before the glass in her pale blue dressing-gown, her pointed chin sunk upon her breast in thought. Ruin was before her father—and if so, it meant ruin for them all!

Should she disregard the count’s suggestion and write to him, urging him to come from Rome and see her; or if not, to allow her to travel alone to Rome? Should she write in secret?

How long she remained pondering, she had no idea. Twice the clock struck solemnly over the deep dark valley that spread beneath her window, until presently, with her mind made up, she rose and crossed to her little writing-table on the opposite side of the apartment, but was dismayed to find the stationery rack empty of notepaper.

If she wrote, it was necessary to do so at once in order to give the letter to Teresa when she came with the coffee in the morning, for the young peasant who took the postbag each day left at eight in the morning, so as to catch the midday mail from Pistoja. There was paper in the library at the farther end of the mansion, therefore she resolved to go and obtain some.

Wrapping a white shawl about her shoulders, she took her candle, and opening her door noiselessly, crept down the long marble corridor past her mother’s door, and then, turning at right angles, proceeded to the door at the end which gave entrance to the splendid book-lined room full of priceless editions.

As she crept along in her little felt-soled slippers she suddenly halted, fancying that she heard an unusual noise. The peasantry entertained an absurd belief that at night supernatural noises were heard in the place, but of course she did not believe in them. In fact, she believed that the story had been invented by the agent, and circulated among the superstitious folk in order to give the house better protection against thieves.

She listened intently, her ears strained to catch every sound.

Yes, someone was moving in the library!

Her first thought was of burglars, but holding her breath and determined to first make certain before raising the alarm, she advanced cautiously to the door, placed her candle upon the floor, and peered through the keyhole.

She was not mistaken.

A light shone within. The great green door of her father’s safe stood open before her, revealing the nest of iron drawers within, while someone was moving at the writing-table a little distance away, beyond her range of vision.

Her heart beat quickly as her eye was glued to the keyhole.

The thieves, whoever they were, had opened the safe with a key and were calmly rifling it!

She heard a noise as of crisp papers being turned over slowly, and then a few seconds later a dark figure crossed to the safe and took a further packet from one of the drawers.

As the man turned towards her his face became revealed in the dim light. Sight of it staggered her.

The man who had opened the safe, and who was methodically examining her father’s confidential papers in secret, was none other than Jules Dubard!

Chapter Fifteen.

The Peril of a Nation.

The revelation of the truth that Jules Dubard was making a methodical examination of her father’s private papers held Mary spellbound.

From where she bent her eye at the big old-fashioned keyhole, she saw that the ponderous steel door had been opened by a key, for it was still in the shining lock. Within that safe her father kept a number of important state papers relating to the army, and quantities of correspondence had, from time to time, been brought up from Rome by official secretaries and he had placed them there for safety.

Once, while she had been helping him to arrange a quantity of technical documents and tie them in bundles with pink tape, he had remarked—

“These are safer here than in Rome, my dear. There are thousands who long to get sight of them, but they would never think of looking here.”

But there had been a still further curious incident, one which she recalled vividly at that moment as she watched the man intently examining the documents by the light of his candle. It had happened back in April, when some matters connected with the estate called His Excellency from Rome, and he had brought Mary with him up to San Donato, where they had remained only two days. The country was delightful in the bright springtime, and Mary had desired to remain longer, but it was impossible, for her father’s official duties took him back to the Eternal City—and besides, to live in the country in spring is not considered fashionable.

On the second night, while they were at the villa, he being alone, she sat with him in the library after dinner watching him rearrange a series of papers in the safe. It was eleven o’clock when he concluded and locked the great green door, then, carrying the key in his hand, he crossed to where she sat, and said in a calm, earnest voice—

“Mary, I know that you will keep a secret if I reveal one to you, won’t you?”

“Most certainly, father,” was her answer, not without some surprise.

“Then put on your cloak and a shawl around your head, my dear. I want to take you out.”

Her curiosity was increased, for although it was moonlight it was late to walk in the country. Nevertheless she obeyed, and together they passed down the steep, narrow bypath through the dark pine woods, deeper and deeper, until before them in the silence the Arno spread shimmering in the moonbeams.

At the river’s edge His Excellency suddenly halted, saying—

“Mary, I wish you to bear witness to my action, so that if you are ever questioned you may be able to tell the truth. Recollect that to-night is the ninth of April—is it not?”

“Yes; why?” she inquired, more puzzled than ever.

“Because I have decided that that safe in the library shall never again be reopened while I live. See! Here is the key!” and he gave it into her hand, urging her to examine it, which she did under the bright moonbeams.

Then he took it from her hand, and with a sudden movement tossed it as far as he could towards the centre of the deep stream, where it fell with a splash.

He sighed, as though a great weight had been lifted from his mind, and as they turned to re-ascend the hill he said with a grim laugh—

“If anyone wishes to open it now, he’ll have a good deal of difficulty, I think.”

That was all. She had never questioned him further. She had been witness of the wilful concealment of the key, but the reason she knew not. There were state secrets, she supposed, and she always regarded them as mysterious and inexplicable.

Yet the safe had been reopened—if not by the actual key flung into the river, then by a copy.

But what motive had Dubard in coming there on a visit during the Minister’s absence, and making careful examination of the documents which had been so zealously hidden?

Out on the terrace that evening Dubard had, by giving her that warning, shown himself to be her father’s friend. Yet surely this secret prying was no act of friendship?

And this was the man who had courted and flattered her—the man whom more than once she had believed that she could love!

Her heart beat quickly, for she scarce dared to breathe, lest she should betray her presence. The silence was unbroken save that within the room was the rustle of papers as the man carefully glanced over folio after folio.

The writing-table stood a little to the left, beyond the range of her sight, therefore he was for a long time invisible to her. Yet in the dead silence she could distinctly hear the scratching of a pen, as though he were making some extracts or memoranda. He had evidently lit the lamp upon the table, for his candle still stood on the floor before the open safe.

As she listened she heard him laugh lightly to himself, a harsh, low, mocking laugh, which echoed through the big old room, and then he rose and carried back the bundle of documents carefully retied, and placed them in their drawer, afterwards taking out another, and looking at the docket upon it.

From the latter he saw it was of no interest to him, therefore he tossed it back, as he did a second and a third. He seemed to be searching for something he could not find, and his failure caused him considerable chagrin.

His actions held her utterly dumbfounded. Although she had been attracted by his personality and his courtesy, she had, with that curious intuition which women possess, regarded him with some vague distrust. What she now discovered made it plain that she had not been mistaken. Her father had welcomed him to his house, had entertained him, and had regarded him as a man of sterling worth, notwithstanding his Parisian elegance of manner and foppishness of attire.

In their family circle her father had, indeed, more than once expressed admiration of the count’s high qualities, which showed how completely the man had insinuated himself into the Minister’s confidence. But the truth was now revealed, and he was unmasked.

Her natural indignation that he, a comparative stranger, should seek to inquire into her father’s most carefully guarded private affairs, prompted her to burst in upon him and demand the reason of his duplicity; but as she watched, she recognised that the most judicious course would be to remain silent, and to describe to her father all that she had witnessed.

Therefore she remained motionless with strained eyes, set teeth, and quickly beating heart, gazing upon the man who had accepted her mother’s hospitality only to make an examination of her father’s secrets.

An hour passed. The deep-toned clock struck the hour of four, followed by the far-distant bell of Florence. She was cramped, chilled, and in darkness, for she had extinguished her light in order that he should not be attracted by it shining beneath the door.

Presently, however, she saw from his dark, heavy countenance, lit by the uncertain light of the candle, that he was deeply disappointed. He had searched, but had evidently failed to find what he expected. Therefore he commenced busily to rearrange the packets in the steel drawers, just as he had found them, preparatory to relocking the safe and retiring to his room.

She recognised that he had concluded his search—for that night, at any rate—for there still remained four or five drawers full of papers unexamined. Servants rise early in Italy, and he feared, perhaps, that he might be discovered. The remaining papers he reserved for the following night.

She watched him close the safe door and place the key in his pocket, then she rose, caught up her candle, and sped along the corridors back to her own room.

She relit her candle, and as she did so caught the reflection of her own face in the long mirror, and was startled to see how ghastly pale it was.

The discovery amazed her. She realised that the man who courted her so assiduously and who flattered her so constantly was in search of something which he believed to be in her father’s possession. How he had recovered that key which had been thrown deep into the Arno at that lonely reach of the river beneath the tall cypresses, was an utter mystery.

Should she go to her mother and tell her of all she had seen? Her first impulse was to reveal everything, and seek her mother’s counsel; yet on reflection she deemed it wiser to tell her father all she knew. The natural impulse of a daughter was, of course, to take her mother into her confidence, but one fact alone prevented this—only a few days previously her mother had been so loud in praise of the count, in order, it seemed, to recommend him to her daughter. Madame Morini was, with her husband, equally eager to see a formal engagement between the pair, and was surprised and disappointed to notice the cold, imperturbable manner in which Mary always treated him. Mary had realised this long ago, and for that reason now hesitated to tell her mother the truth.

Next morning, while she was puzzling over what excuse she could make to go to Rome, her mother came to her with an open letter in her hand, saying that her father had been called to Naples to be present at an official reception of King Humbert by that city, and would not return to the Ministry for three days. This news caused Mary’s heart to sink within her, for she saw the uselessness of going to Rome until he returned.

That day she avoided Dubard, making an excuse that she had a headache, and spending most of the time alone in her little boudoir. The Frenchman took the other girls for an excursion through the woods, and during his absence she entered the great old library and carefully examined the lock of the safe.

It showed no sign of having been tampered with, having evidently been opened with its proper key—or an exact copy of it. The waste-paper basket was empty, the maid having taken it away that morning; but the blotting-pad caught her eye, and she held it before the long old empire mirror and tried to read the impressions of the words he had copied. But in vain. One or two disjointed words in French she made out, but they told her absolutely nothing. He had evidently made memoranda of the documents in French, or else the documents themselves had been written in French.

She knew, by his actions on the previous night, that he intended to return and conclude his investigations, and a sudden idea occurred to her to thwart his plans. The real object of his search he had apparently not discovered, therefore it was her duty to prevent him from obtaining it, and yet at the same time remain secret and appear to possess no knowledge of his attempt. She reflected for some time how best to accomplish this, when at last a mode essentially feminine suggested itself—one which she hoped would be effective.