William Le Queux (continued 3)

Again she crossed to that huge green-painted safe let into the wall, which contained her father’s secrets—and many of the military secrets of the kingdom of Italy—and taking a hairpin from her tightly bound tresses—always the most handy feminine object—she broke off a piece of the wire about an inch long, which she carefully inserted in the keyhole, poking it well in by means of the other portion of the pin until she heard it fall with a click into the delicate mechanism of the lock.

Then, smiling to herself, she withdrew, knowing that whatever attempt Dubard now made to reopen that door would be without avail. There was nothing to show that anyone had interfered with the mechanism, therefore he would be entirely unsuspecting, and would attribute the non-working to some defect in the lock itself, or in the key.

That night she sat next him at dinner, bearing herself as bravely bright and vivacious as ever, and determined that his suspicions should not be aroused; while he, on his part, thought her more charming than ever.

The evening passed as usual in the small drawing-room with music and gossip, and later, after all had retired and one o’clock had struck, Mary crept out in the darkness to the library, where, sure enough, she saw, on peering through the keyhole, the man who was so cleverly courting her actively trying to open the safe door.

The key would only half turn, and in French he muttered some low words of chagrin and despair. He tried and tried, and tried again, but all to no purpose. He withdrew the key, blew into the barrel, examined it in the light, and then tried once more.

But the lock had become jammed, and neither by force nor by light manoeuvring could he turn the key sufficiently to shoot back the huge shining bolts that held the door on every side.

Mary’s effort had been successful. By that tiny piece of wire her father’s secrets were held in safety.

Chapter Sixteen.

Father and Daughter.

“My dear child, you really must have been dreaming, walking in your sleep!” declared Camillo Morini, looking at his daughter and laughing forcedly.

“I was not, father!” she declared very seriously. “I saw the man take out those bundles of papers I helped you to tie up.”

“But the key! There was only one made, and you know where it is. You saw me do away with it.”

“He has a duplicate.”

The Minister of War shook his head dubiously. What his daughter had told him about Jules Dubard was utterly inconceivable. He could not believe her. Truth to tell, he half believed that she had invented the story as an excuse against her engagement to him. Though so clever and far-seeing as a politician he was often unsuspicious of his enemies. Good-nature was his fault. He believed ill of nobody, and more especially of a man like Dubard, who had already shown himself a friend in several ways, and had rendered him a number of important services.

“And you say that you put a piece of your hairpin in the lock, and that prevented him reopening it on the second night?”

“Yes. Had it not been for that he would have made a complete examination of everything,” she said. “If he had done so, would he have discovered much of importance?”

His Excellency hesitated, and his grey brows contracted.

“Yes, Mary,” he answered, after a brief pause. “He would. There are secrets there—secrets which if revealed might imperil the safety of Italy.”

“And they are in your keeping?”

“They are in my keeping as Minister of War.”

“And some of them affect you—personally? Tell me the truth,” she urged, her gloved hand laid upon the edge of the table.

“They affect me both as Minister and as a loyal subject of His Majesty,” was His Excellency’s response, his face growing a trifle paler.

If the truths contained within that safe really leaked out, the result, he knew, would be irretrievable ruin. Even the contemplation of such a catastrophe caused him to hold his breath.

“Then I assure you, father, that nearly half the documents within have been carefully and methodically examined by this man who poses as your friend.”

“And to tell you the truth, dear, I cannot credit it. He can have no key that would open the door, unless he recovered it from the Arno—which is not likely. They never dredge that part, for it is too deep. Besides, that portion of the river is my own property, and before it could be dredged they would have to give me notice.”

“But a duplicate—could he not possess one?”

“Impossible. That safe was specially manufactured in London for me, and is one of the strongest ever constructed. I had it made specially of treble strength which will resist any drill or wedge—even dynamite would only break the lock and leave the bolts shot. The only manner it could be forced without the key would be to place it in a furnace or apply electrical heat, which would cause the steel to give. The makers specially designed it so that no second key could ever be fitted.”

“Then you disbelieve me?” she said, looking into her father’s face.

“No, I don’t actually disbelieve you, my dear,” he responded, placing his hand tenderly upon hers; “only the whole affair seems so absolutely incredible.”

“Everything is credible in the present situation,” she said, and then went on to relate what Dubard had told her regarding the conspiracy of the Socialists, who intended to hound the Ministry from office.

She was seated in her father’s private cabinet at the Ministry of War, in the large leather-covered chair opposite his big littered table, the chair in which sat so many high officials day after day discussing the military matters of the Italian nation. The double doors were closed, as they always were, against eavesdroppers.

She had, at her own request, managed to have a telegram sent her by him, and with Teresa had arrived in Rome only an hour ago. She had driven straight to the Ministry, and on her arrival Morini had quickly dismissed the general commanding in Sicily, to whom at that moment he was giving audience.

The story his daughter had related seemed utterly incredible. He knew from Ricci of the deep plot against him, but that the safe should really have been opened, and by Dubard of all men, staggered belief. That was why, in his astonishment, he declared that she must have been dreaming.

But in a few moments he became convinced, by her manner, that it was no dream, but an actual fact. Dubard, who had shown himself a friend, had actually pried into what was hidden from all. Why?

What had he discovered? That was the question.

Mary told him of the memoranda, and of the impressions upon the blotting-pad, whereupon he exclaimed quickly—

“I’ll send someone up to San Donato to-night to bring the blotting-pad here. Granati, the handwriting expert, shall examine it.” Then after a brief pause, he bent towards her, saying, “You do not believe that he really discovered what he was in search of?”

“No; he seemed disappointed.”

His Excellency heaved a sigh of relief. If Jules Dubard really had opened the safe, then he feared too well the reason—the motive of the search was plain enough to him.

His teeth set themselves hard, his face blanched at thought of it; and he brushed the scanty grey hair from his forehead with his hand.

And yet it seemed impossible—utterly impossible—that the safe could really have been opened and its contents examined.

“I can’t understand Count Dubard’s reason for accepting our hospitality and then acting as a thief during your absence, father,” the girl remarked, looking him full in the face. “I’ve told mother nothing, as I preferred to come straight to you. That is why I asked you to call me here by telegraph.”

“Quite right, my dear; quite right,” he said. “It would upset your mother unnecessarily.”

“But there is another matter about which I want to talk,” she said, after some hesitation; “something that the count has told me in confidence.”

“Oh! What’s that?” he asked quickly.

“It concerns yourself, father. He says that there is a deep political plot against you—to secure the downfall of the Cabinet and to bring certain unfounded charges against you personally.”

Her father smiled quite calmly.

“That news, my dear, is scarcely fresh,” he replied. “For twenty-five years my political enemies have been seeking to oust me from every office I’ve ever held. Therefore that they should be doing so now is only natural.”

“I know! I know!” she said, with earnest apprehension. “But he says that the plot is so formed that its result will reflect upon you personally,” and then she went on to describe exactly what Dubard had told her.

His Excellency, nervously toying with the quill, listened, and as he did so reflected upon what Ricci had already told him.

How was it, he wondered, that the Frenchman, who was outside the inner ring of Italian politics, knew all this? He must have some secret source of knowledge. That was plain.

Morini looked into his daughter’s great brown eyes, and read the deep anxiety there. Within his own heart he was full of apprehension for the future lest the Socialists might defeat the Government; yet, with the tact of the old political hand, he betrayed no concern before her. What she told him, however, revealed certain things that he had not hitherto suspected, and rendered the outlook far blacker than he had before regarded it.

“The count has also told me that there is a charge of treason against Captain Solaro.”

Instantly her father’s face changed.

“Well?” he snapped.

“The captain is innocent,” she declared. “He must be. He would never betray the military secrets of his country.”

“That is a matter which does not concern you, Mary,” he exclaimed quickly. “He has been tried by court-martial and been dismissed the army.”

“But you surely will not allow an innocent man to suffer, father!” she urged in a voice of quick reproach.

“It is not a matter that concerns either of us, my dear,” he answered in a hard tone. “He has been found guilty—that is sufficient.”

She was silent, for suddenly she recollected what the count had said, namely, that any effort on her part to prove poor Solaro’s innocence must reflect upon her father, whose enemies would use the fact to prove that Italy had been betrayed with the connivance of the Minister of War.

She sighed. She had suspicions—grave ones; but she knew that at least Felice Solaro had been made the scapegoat of some cunning plot, and that his sentence was unjust. Yet what could she do in such circumstances? She was powerless. She could only remain patient and wait—wait, perhaps, for the final blow to fall upon her father and her house! A silence fell, broken only by the low ticking of the marble clock and the measured tramp of the sentry down in the sun-baked courtyard.

Her father sighed, rose from his chair, and with his hands behind his back paced anxiously up and down the room.

“Mary!” he exclaimed suddenly, in a changed voice, hoarsely in earnest, “if the secrets hidden in that safe have actually fallen into the hands of my enemies, then I must resign from office?” His face was now blanched to the lips, for all his self-possession seemed to have deserted him in an instant as the ghastly truth became revealed. “I know—I know too well—how cleverly the conspiracy has been formed, but I never dreamed that that safe could be opened, and the truth known. No,” he said in a low voice of despair, his chin sunk upon his breast; “it would be better to resign, and fly from Italy.”

His daughter looked at him in silence and surprise. She had never seen him plunged in such despair. A bond of sympathy had always existed between father and daughter ever since her infancy.

“Then you dare not face your enemies if they are actually in possession of what is contained in the safe?” she said slowly, rising and placing her hand tenderly upon her father’s shoulder. She realised for the first time that her father, the man whom she had trusted so implicitly since her childhood, held some guilty secret.

“No, my dear, I dare not,” was his reply, placing his trembling hand upon her arm.

“But you are unaware of how much knowledge Count Dubard has obtained,” she pointed out.

“Sufficient in any case to cause my ruin,” replied the grey-haired Minister of War. “That is, of course, if he is not after all my friend.”

“But he is your friend, father,” she was compelled to exclaim, in order to give him courage, for she had never in her life seen him so overcome.

“Those midnight investigations are, as you have said, a curious way of demonstrating friendship,” he remarked blankly. “No,” he added in a dry, hard tone. “To-day is the beginning of the end. These are my last days of office, Mary. The vote may be taken in the Chamber any day, and then—” and his eyes wandered involuntarily to that drawer in his writing-table wherein reposed his revolver, which, alas! more than once of late he had handled so fondly.

“And after that—what?” his daughter asked anxiously.

But only a deep sigh ran through the lofty room, and then she realised that her father’s kindly eyes were filled with tears.

Chapter Seventeen.

The Sazarac Affair.

The great gilded ballroom of the French Embassy in Rome was thronged by a brilliant crowd, even though it was out of the season and the majority of the official and diplomatic world were still absent from the Eternal City, in the mountains or at the baths.

The bright uniforms, the glittering stars and coloured ribbons worn by the men, and the magnificent toilettes of the women, combined to form a perfect phantasmagoria of colour beneath the huge crystal electroliers.

The orchestra was playing a waltz, and many of the guests were dancing; for the floor at the Farnese Palace was the best in Rome. Camillo Morini, though in no mood for gaiety and obliged to attend, was wandering aimlessly through the rooms, exchanging salutes with the men he knew and now and then bowing low over a woman’s hand. In his brilliant uniform as Minister of War, with the cerise and white ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy and a number of minor decorations, he presented a strikingly handsome figure, tall, erect, and distinguished-looking, as he strode through the huge painted salons dazzling with their heavy gilt mirrors and giant palms, a man of power in that complex nation, modern Italy.

After Mary had sought him and revealed the amazing fact of Dubard’s secret investigations, she had gone on home to the palace with her maid Teresa, where he had joined her about six o’clock.

Father and daughter had dined alone in the long, high, old frescoed room. Few words they exchanged, for both felt that a crisis was imminent, and that if the blow fell the catastrophe must be overwhelming and complete. A true bond of deepest sympathy had always existed between them, for, as an only child, he had lavished upon her all his affection, while she, in turn, regarded him with a strong affection unusual in these decadent days. More than once since she had returned from the Broadstairs school she had been his assistant and adviser in the hours when she had found him alone and agitated as he so often was. More than once, indeed, he had confided in her, telling her of affairs which he withheld even from his wife for fear of unduly disturbing her in her delicate state of health. Often he had, of his own accord, sought his daughter’s counsel. Hence she was in possession of many confidential facts concerning persons and politics in Rome, and with her woman’s keen perception had already in consequence become a trained diplomat.

In the long and painful silence during dinner he urged her to accompany him to the French Ambassador’s reception, adding with a sigh, “I would rather remain at home with you, my dear; but I must go. It will not do for me to betray any sign of fear.”

“Go, certainly. It is your duty, father. But I am really too tired after my journey.”

And so she excused herself from accompanying him, and went off early to her room.

His Excellency had been chatting with the Prince Demidoff, the Russian Ambassador, and was passing into the great ballroom, where the gaiety was then at its height, when he came face to face with Angelo Borselli, gorgeous in his brilliant general’s uniform.

“Ah, my dear Camillo!” exclaimed the latter. “I only returned from Paris to-day, and called upon you on my way here. I must see you at once—privately.”

The Minister, who had not met the Under-Secretary since the adventurer Ricci had revealed to him the truth regarding the Socialist conspiracy, controlled his feelings with marvellous calmness, and greeted his friend effusively.

“Why?” asked His Excellency under his breath. “Has anything happened?”

“A good deal. But here the very walls have ears,” was the answer. “I have come in search of you.”

“Well?” asked the Minister of War in abrupt surprise, recollecting the warning Ricci had already given him.

“Come with me. I know my way about this place,” Borselli said. “There is an anteroom at the end of the south corridor where we can talk without risk of eavesdroppers.”

Their host, Baron Riboulet, the French Ambassador, a tall, handsome, brown-bearded man, stopped and greeted the pair at that moment, while several other personages well-known in Roman society came up to pay their respects to His Excellency the Minister. Then at last the Under-Secretary managed to whisper—

“Let’s get away. I must see you without further delay. Come.”

And together they strolled through the magnificent salons with their brilliant crowds and presently entered a small, barely furnished room in a distant part of the historic old palace which is now the residence of the representative of the French Republic. As soon as they were within Borselli switched on the electric light, closed the door and locked it.

When he turned to the Minister the latter saw that his countenance had changed. He was pale and anxious, as though he had information of the highest importance to impart.

“Well?” asked Morini, wondering why he had brought him there so mysteriously.

“I have been in London again,” the other exclaimed. “The truth of the Sazarac affair is known!”

Camillo Morini held his breath, his brows knit themselves, and his teeth were set hard. If this were a fact, then Borselli himself must have revealed the truth, for he alone knew it. What Ricci had told him had opened his eyes to this fellow’s secret intentions. This was, no doubt, part of the vile, despicable conspiracy to secure the downfall of the Ministry. He knew that Angelo Borselli, the ambitious schemer with the rank of general, who owed everything to him, was his bitterest opponent, and he now saw an opportunity of fathoming the ingenious ramifications of the plot that was to effect his ruin. He was, however, too well versed in statesmanship to betray in his face the inner workings of his mind, and Borselli, notwithstanding that consummate craft which was his most prominent characteristic, had no suspicion that his chief was aware of the conspiracy.

“If the truth regarding General Sazarac is out, my dear Angelo,” he said quite calmly, “then you must forgive me for suspecting that the catastrophe is due to your own indiscretion.”

“Ah, my dear friend, there you are entirely wrong!” the other declared in a low, intense voice. “A man whom you know in England is well aware of the whole of the facts.”

“And who is he, pray?” inquired the Minister, still preserving an outward calm that was perfect.

“The young Englishman George Macbean—the man who was staying with Sinclair of Thornby.”

“Macbean?” slowly repeated His Excellency, gradually recalling to his memory the young Englishman whom Mary had introduced to him upon his own lawn. “Ah, of course! I recollect. He is Sinclair’s nephew, and secretary to that fellow Morgan-Mason who came to Rome to see us about provisioning.”

“The same. He knows everything.”

The Minister was silent. His brows were knit. He recollected Macbean quite well, and wondered whether what Borselli was telling him were the actual truth. Since Vito Ricci had revealed the amazing cunning with which the Under-Secretary was working, he naturally mistrusted him.

“Well, and what does it matter?” asked Morini, still quite cool.

“Matter?” gasped the other. “Matter? Why, if he reveals what he knows it will mean ruin for us both—ruin?”

“You have expressed fear several times, my dear Angelo,” laughed the Minister, leaning easily with his back to the table. “For myself, I entertain no fear. How did you discover that he held this knowledge?”

“I had my suspicions, and I therefore returned to England and found him in London. I did not approach him myself, of course, but from information I gathered I know that he must be aware of the whole truth. That being so, we must not risk any revelations.”

“But even if he really does know, what motive could he ever have in bringing any distinct charge?” queried Morini, facing the man who, he knew, intended to himself occupy the post of Minister of War.

“You forget that he is secretary to that overbearing parvenu Morgan-Mason, and that the latter was Sazarac’s most intimate friend.”

Camillo Morini bit his lip. He had never thought of that. The affair of General Sazarac was to the public a mystery—one which the English Member of Parliament had actively endeavoured to solve. The young Englishman Macbean, if he really knew the truth, might be induced by his employer to speak! In an instant he recognised a further peril in a quarter hitherto entirely unexpected.

“You are quite certain he knows?”

“Absolutely.”

“By what means did he learn the truth?”

“Ah, that is not clear!” responded the thin-faced man. “He knows; but how, is more than we can tell. The merchant of provisions, his employer, was the general’s friend. Therefore the general probably knew the secretary, and may have taken him into his confidence! Cannot you therefore see that the fellow must be given an appointment in our Ministry? We cannot afford to allow him to remain the secretary of this parvenu, treated worse than a dog, ill-paid and sneered at on account of his superior birth and education. We must run no risk.”

“Then the English Member of Parliament is not a very good employer—eh?”

“The reverse; a very bad one. He is a man who rose from being an assistant in a grocer’s shop in a London suburb to be what he is, the greatest dealer in provisions in all the world—a man who is worshipped in London society because of his millions, and upon whose smile even an English duchess will hang. Ah, my dear Camillo! You, although you have a house in England, do not know those English. They are a people of millions; and in society they count their virtues by the millions they possess. I know a man who was a waiter in an hotel in South Africa a few years ago who now has the proud English nobility—their milords and their miladies—around his table. They eat his dinners, they shoot his birds, they use his yacht, they beg of him for loans—and yet they jeer and laugh at him behind his back. It is so with this member of the English Parliament to whom our young friend now acts as secretary.”

“I cannot see your point,” said the Minister of War, his uniform-hat tucked beneath his arm.

“Cannot you see that if this Englishman really knows the story of Sazarac it is to our mutual interests that he should not speak of it? It might mean ruin for us,” Borselli pointed out in a low, earnest voice. “Cannot you see that, being in the employ of that pompous hog-merchant Morgan-Mason, and badly paid for his services he is longing for a higher and more lucrative position? Is it not but natural? He knows Italy, and would be only too eager to accept an appointment in the Ministry—where we really want a good English secretary. Such a man would be of the utmost value to both of us.”

“Then you suggest that we should offer him an appointment?”

“Exactly,” was Borselli’s reply. “If you agree to give the fellow a secretaryship, leave the rest to me. He will be only too eager to accept an appointment under the Government, and once in Rome and in our employ, he will never dare to open his mouth regarding the ugly affair.”

Chapter Eighteen.

Counting the Cost.

Next day at noon Mary, who was out driving in the smart English victoria, called at the Ministry and again sat alone with her father trying to persuade him to order an inquiry into the case of the unfortunate Felice Solaro.

“It is useless, my dear,” was his impatient answer. “He has already been here himself, but the case is proved up to the very hilt. I therefore cannot interfere.”

“Proved by that woman Nodari?” she cried, with fierce indignation. Then, after a pause, she leaned towards him and said in a low, earnest voice, “You will not allow an inquiry because you fear its result, father?”

“Hush! Who told you that?” he gasped, staring at her.

“No one. It is only a logical conclusion. The captain is the victim of a wicked conspiracy, and he is suffering in silence because he knows the utter futility of appeal.”

“He has already appealed to me.”

“And you have refused him justice!” was his daughter’s quick reproachful declaration. “You are surely not unjust, father? You cannot be.”

The tall, distinguished-looking man was silent, and rising, walked up the long strip of carpet placed upon the marble floor. Then slowly he returned to her, and looking straight into her face, said—

“My hands are tied, my girl. I am powerless, I confess to you.”

“But in your heart you believe that he is innocent? Tell me the truth.”

“Yes,” he whispered in a broken voice. “I do—I do.”

She made no response. His admission was full of a poignant meaning. She saw that he was somehow fettered, held in some mysterious bondage of which she was in ignorance.

Again she spoke of the examination of the safe by Dubard, but this matter he seemed disinclined to discuss, and pleading other affairs, he urged her to return home and await him at luncheon.

At three o’clock, after eating his midday meal with her, he went forth again to make a round of official calls, when, a quarter of an hour later, the Italian footman threw open the long white doors of the small salon where Mary was sitting writing letters, and announced—

“Comte Dubard!”

She started quickly, held her breath, and rose to greet her visitor, who, foppishly dressed in a pale grey flannel suit, came forward smiling, and, drawing his heels together, bowed low over her white hand. The man’s calm impertinence and cool unscrupulousness held her speechless.

“I thought you were still at San Donato,” she stammered, when at last she found tongue. “I had no idea you were here, in Rome.”

“I have followed you,” he declared, smiling. “You left the villa unknown to me, and therefore I have come to you.”

“For what reason?” she inquired, her brows slightly elevated.

“Because—well, because I fear that the reason of your sudden journey is to reveal to your father those things which I told you in confidence the other day. Remember the future rests entirely in your own hands. He must know nothing—at least at present.”

“And is that the only reason you are here, count?” she asked meaningly, standing before him with her hands behind her back, her splendid dark eyes fixed upon him.

“I come here as your friend to warn you that silence is best at this moment. A word to your father will precipitate the crisis. I know,” he went on, “that you are convinced that an injustice has been done in the case of poor Solaro. Your attitude the other evening showed me that. But I beg of you to make no effort to clear his character, because, in the first place, any such attempt must of necessity fail; and secondly, your father’s enemies would at once shriek of the insecurity of the French frontier. No,” he argued, speaking in a low tone in French, “you must keep your own counsel, mademoiselle. If this catastrophe is to be averted, if the Cabinet is to be saved, then it must be by some ingenious means that are not apparent to your father’s enemies.”

She stood listening to this declaration of friendship by the man who had pried into her father’s secrets. It was on the tip of her tongue to openly charge him with ulterior motives, nevertheless her better judgment prevailed. She recognised, as her father had pointed out, that no good end could be served by showing her hand at that juncture, therefore she allowed him to argue without raising her voice in protest. He had followed her from Tuscany because he was apprehensive lest she should tell her father the truth. Why? He was in fear of something; of what, she could not tell.

A great conspiracy, ingenious and widespread, was afoot to encompass her father’s ruin, therefore she resolved to remain at his side and at any cost face the perils of exposure. The few hours she had spent in her father’s society had shown that, so full was he of his responsible official duties and affairs concerning the army of Italy, he had, in a few weeks, become an entirely changed man. His face was now pale and drawn, and when he sat alone with her there rested upon his countenance a haunted look—the look of a man who was face to face with ruin. Loving her father, she had been quick to recognise the truth. At first it had staggered her, but her surprise and horror had given place to a deep filial sympathy, and while determined to hide her secret from her mother, she had become at the same time her father’s confidante and friend.

“I am quite well aware of the intentions of the Opposition,” she answered coldly, after a painful pause. “But I am not in the least apprehensive. My father has for so many years been a faithful servant of his sovereign that the Italian people still have confidence in him. Neither the country nor the Camera can fail to recognise the many reforms he has introduced into the army, or how he has alleviated the lot of the common conscript.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, with a deep sigh. “I am glad that you recognise your father’s strong position—the strongest of any man in the Italian Government. Nevertheless,” he added, “those shrieking firebrands can, if they so desire, set Italy aflame. We have that truth to face, and we must face it.”

Her lips were pressed together, for she saw how cleverly he was changing his tactics towards her. She also recognised how, by appearing to have confidence in the future, she could place him off his guard. Her father’s honour was, she felt, in her hands, and the magnitude of the issue aroused within her all her woman’s innate tact and courage.

“I came to Rome because my father telegraphed to me,” she said quite simply. “He wanted to take me with him to Palermo to visit my aunt, but the king’s programme is changed, so we are not going after all. I intend to return to San Donato the day after to-morrow. It is still too hot in Rome.”

“Ah! then I own myself quite mistaken,” he laughed. “I have been unduly anxious, for I attributed your sudden departure to your natural desire to tell His Excellency all that I had explained in confidence. We men, you know, are in the habit of saying that women cannot keep secrets.”

“I can keep one,” she declared.

“Yes,” he answered. “I know you can. Upon your secrecy in this affair the very fate of the Ministry depends, believe me. You know that I am your father’s true friend—as well as yours.”

She held her breath, and her eyes met his.

“You have told me that several times before,” she remarked in a quiet, mechanical voice and with an assumed air of unconcern.

“And I mean it,” he said earnestly. “Only you had better not tell your father that I am here. It is, perhaps, unwise to let him know that I have followed you from San Donato—he may suspect.”

“Suspect what?”

“Well, suspect the reason of my visit to you to-day,” he said, surprised at her quick question. “You see I have come here because—well, to tell you the truth,” he faltered, “I am here to tell you something which I wanted to say at San Donato—yet I dared not.”

“What—is it bad news?” she asked, looking at him with some apprehension.

A long silence fell between them. He was watching her, hesitating whether he should speak. At length, however, he suddenly took her hand and said—

“As I have told you, I am your father’s friend. You may doubt me; probably you do. But one day I shall prove to you that I am acting solely from motives of friendship—that I am endeavouring to shield your father from the impending blow.”

“If you are, why do you not go to my father and tell him everything?” she asked, inwardly filled with doubt and mistrust.

“Because, as I have told you, it is impolitic to do so at this moment. We must wait.”

“And while we wait his enemies may take advantage.”

“No, not yet. Their plans are not yet complete,” he answered. “I was at the Camera last evening, and discovered the exact situation. If we are patient and watchful we may yet turn the weapon of our enemies against themselves.”

He saw that she was grave and thoughtful, that his advice caused her to reflect; while she, on her part, did not divulge what she had already told His Excellency.

They stood together at the window, where the long green sun-shutters were closed to keep out the blazing heat of afternoon, and as he looked upon her handsome profile in that dim half-light he saw that her face and figure in her cool white dress was the most perfect that he had ever gazed upon even in the haut monde of Paris. In the air was the stifling oppression of the storm-cloud: “You are sad,” he said presently in a calm, low voice as he leaned against the broad marble sill of the window, where a welcome breath of air reached them from the silent sun-baked street below.

Her dark eyes were fixed upon the opposite wall, and her hands were clasped in pensive attitude; for his manner had mystified her, knowing all that he had done in the silence of the night at San Donato.

“I fear the future,” she declared frankly, starting at his words and turning her gaze upon him.

“But what have you to fear?” he asked, bending slowly towards her with an intense look in his eyes. “I am your friend equally with your father’s, as I have already declared, and fortunately I know the intentions and the dastardly intrigues of those who are plotting his ruin.”

“Then you can save him by exposing their plot?” she cried, utterly amazed at his words. “You will—will you not?” she implored breathlessly.

“I can save him—yes, I can, within twelve hours, cause the very men who now seek the downfall of the Ministry to fly in fear from Rome,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added, “I know the truth.”

“And you will tell it?” she urged breathlessly, advancing towards him. “My father’s future, my own future, the honour of our house all depend upon you.” He had examined her father’s private papers, and undoubtedly knew the truth on both sides. He had acted with the enemy, and yet he declared himself to be her friend? “You will save my father?” she implored.

With a sudden movement he took her hand in his and whispered in a quick, earnest voice into her ear—

“Yes, I will save him—on one condition. Of late, Mary, I have noticed that you have avoided me—that—that you somehow appear to shun me in suspicion and mistrust. You doubt my good intentions towards you and your family. But I will give proof of them if you will only allow me.”

She felt his hot breath upon her cheek, and trembled.

“Save my father from the hands of these unscrupulous office-seekers,” she panted. “His honour—his very life is to-day at stake.”

“Upon two conditions, Mary,” was his low, quiet answer, still holding her hand firmly in his. “That he gives his consent to our marriage, and that you are willing to become my wife.”

“Your wife!” she gasped, drawing her hand away, starting back, and looking blankly at him with her magnificent eyes. “Your wife!”

“Yes. I love you, Mary,” he cried passionately, taking her hand again, “I love you. You must have seen how for months past I have lived for you alone, yet I dared not, until to-day, reveal the truth. Say one word—only say that you will be mine—and your father shall crush those who intend to wreck and ruin him.”

“You—then you make marriage the price of my father’s triumph?” she faltered hoarsely, as the ghastly truth gradually dawned upon her.

“Yes,” he cried, raising her inert hand to his hot lips. “Because I love you, Mary!—because I cannot live without you! Be mine. Speak the word, and I will reveal the truth and save your father from ruin.”

But, realising the cleverly laid trap into which she had fallen, she stood silent and rigid, her eyes fixed upon him in an agony of blank, unutterable despair.

Chapter Nineteen.

The Sacrifice.

The glaring afternoon had drawn to a close.

Camillo Morini, after a heavy day’s work in the silence of the big old library at San Donato shaded from the sun-glare, rose, and joining Mary, went out along the hill to enjoy the bel fresco of the departing day. The Italian habit is to go out and wander at sundown, and when up at his villa His Excellency always made it a rule to take a stroll through the cool pine woods, generally accompanied by Mary; for his wife was not a good walker, and seldom ventured far. Therefore father and daughter, in the two hours preceding dinner, frequently made excursions on foot through the smiling vineyards and great pine forests around the magnificent old mansion.

They had skirted the mediaeval walls of the village and passed down the old cypress avenue, saluted on every side by their contadini, then striking off on a bypath through the wood they halted at a point known by the countryfolk as the Massa del Fate—or Fairy’s Rock—where there opened suddenly before them a magnificent view—Tuscany, the paradise of Europe, in the sundown.

Surely nothing could be so beautiful as the lines of the Arno valley, the gentle inclination of the hills, and the soft fugitive outlines of the mountains which bounded them. A singular tint and most peculiar harmony united the earth, the sky, and the wide winding river. All the surfaces were blended at their extremities by means of an insensible gradation of colour, and without the possibility of ascertaining the point at which one ended or another began. It appeared ideal, possessing a beauty beyond nature; it was nevertheless the genuine light of old-world Tuscany.

The Minister of War, in his white drill suit and straw hat, a trifle negligent of attire as he always was when he was up there in that remote retreat, halted at the break in the high dark pines, gazed out upon the marvellous panorama, and inhaled a deep breath of the cool, refreshing wind that came up from the valley with the sundown.

After hours of intricate work in his darkened study he stood there to refresh himself, while Mary, in pale blue with a big straw hat, was at his side, her eyes turned away up the valley, reflecting upon some meaning words he had just uttered.

Mary often came to that lonely point on the high-up estate to enjoy the grand scene of departing day. In that hour, when the evening bells came up from the white villages dotted far below, the summits of the Apennines appeared to consist of lapis-lazuli and pale gold, while their bases and sides were enveloped in a vapour which had a tint now violet, now purple. Beautiful clouds like light chariots borne on the wind with inimitable grace that came from seaward made one easily comprehend the appearance of the Olympian deities under that mythological sky. Ancient Florence seemed to have stretched out all the purple of her Cardinals, her Signori, and her Medici, and spread it under the last steps of the God of Day.

“Well?” asked the Minister, as he watched the girl’s beautiful face set full to the dying sunset and saw the far-off look in her wonderful eyes.

“I have nothing to say, father—nothing,” was her quiet answer as she turned to him, and he saw that she was on the point of tears.

“Then you are content that it should be so? I mean you will permit me to give a favourable reply to the count?” he said, not without some hesitation. He had aged visibly since those quiet days in rural England, and the lines upon his pale brow gave him an expression of deep anxiety.

She sighed, and for a few moments made no response.

“Is it your wish that I should marry him?” she asked in a low, mechanical tone, her face pale, her hands trembling.

“I have no desire to place undue pressure upon you, my dear,” he said, placing his hand kindly upon her shoulder. “I merely ask you what response you wish me to give. He came to me while I was sitting alone in Rome three nights ago, and requested permission to pay his court to you.”

“And what response did you give?” she inquired in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

“I told him that I desired to hear your own views before giving him an answer.”

She was again silent, her face turned to the darkening valley. The sundown in Italy disappears less quickly than in England, for when the tints are on the point of vanishing they suddenly break out again and illumine some other point of the horizon. Twilight succeeds twilight, and the charm of closing day is prolonged.

“And what is your wish, father?” she asked presently, still looking blankly before her; for those grey fading lights seemed to be but the reflection of her own fading life and happiness.

“Well, Mary,” he said, his hand still upon her shoulder, “let me speak frankly and candidly. This morning I discussed the matter fully with your mother, and we both came to the conclusion that the count is a very eligible man. Neither of us desire you to marry if you entertain no love for him, but both in England and in Italy we have noticed for a year past that you have not been averse to his attentions, and—well, I may as well tell you quite plainly, my dear—we have been much gratified to think that the attraction has been mutual. Yet,” he added, “it lies with you entirely to accept or to reject him.”

“It would please you, father, if I became the Comtesse Dubard, would it not?” she asked, tears that were beyond her control springing to her eyes.

“It would please both of us,” he said in a low, earnest voice. “But you yourself must decide. That he will make you a good husband, I have no doubt. Yet, as I have already said, as your father I would be the very last to endeavour to force you to marry a man you do not love.”

She did not reply. He stood gazing upon her face, and his own thoughts were sad ones. Soon, very soon, the blow might fall, and then his wife and daughter would be left alone. He was, therefore, anxious to see her married before that catastrophe, which he knew was inevitable.

When the count had sat with him that evening making his request, he recollected the strange story Mary had told him regarding the secret examination of his papers. It was curious—so curious and so utterly devoid of motive that he could see no reason in it. Yet if that Frenchman had really discovered certain things concealed behind that green-painted steel door, it was to his interest that he should become his son-in-law and so preserve the secret.

Yes, he was anxious to see his daughter married to that man to whom he had taken such a personal liking, yet he affected to leave the decision entirely in her own hands.

She spoke at last in a hard, tuneless voice, as though her youth and life were slowly dying just as surely as the day was fading.

“If it is your wish, father, that I should become his wife, you may give him an affirmative answer. But—”

And she suddenly burst into a torrent of hot tears.

“Ah no! no!” her father cried, touching her pale cheek tenderly. “No. Do not give way, dear. I have no desire that you should marry this man if you yourself do not really love him. Perhaps your mother has been mistaken, but by various signs and looks that both of us noticed in Rome and in England, we believed that you entertained for him a warm affection.”

“I know that my marriage would please you,” she said. “Mother gave me to understand that two months ago, therefore,”—and she paused as though she could not utter the words which were to decide her fate—“therefore I am willing to accept him.”

“Ah, Mary!” he exclaimed quickly, his face brightening, for her decision aroused hope within him. “I need not tell you what happiness your words bring to me. I confess to you that I have hoped that you would give your consent, for I would rather see you the wife of the count, with wealth and position, than married to any other man I know. He loves you—of that I am convinced. Has he never told you so?”

She did not answer for a few moments. She was reflecting upon that scene in the little salon in Rome when he had revealed himself to her in his true colours.

“Yes,” she answered at last in that same hard, colourless voice. “He told me so once.”

He attributed her blank, despairing look to the natural emotion of the moment. It was the great crisis of her young life, for she was deciding her future. He was in ignorance of how already she had made the compact with Dubard—of how she had decided to sacrifice herself in order to save him.

Her father, in ignorance of the truth of how nobly she was acting, went on to analyse the young Frenchman’s good qualities and relate to her all that he had learnt regarding him.

“His youth has been no better and no worse than that of any young man brought up in Paris,” he said, “yet from the information I have gathered it seems that he has sown his wild oats long ago, and for the past couple of years he has given up racing and gambling and all such vices of youth, and has become a perfect model of what a young man should be. Men who know him in Paris speak highly of him as a man of real grit—a man with a future before him. You do not think, Mary,” he went on, “that I should have welcomed him as a guest at my table if I were not sure that he was a man worthy the name of friend?”

“Ah!” she sighed, “you have, my dear father, sometimes been disappointed in your friendships, I fear. Angelo Borselli, for instance, has been your friend through many years.”

“Angelo!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Yes, yes, I know. But I am speaking of Jules—of the man you have consented to marry.”

A slight hardness showed at the corners of her mouth at mention of the man who had so cleverly entrapped her. She knew that escape was impossible. He could place her father in a position of triumph over his enemies, and in return claimed herself. Ah! if she could only speak the truth; if she could only take her father into her confidence, and show him the reason she so readily gave her consent to a union that was odious to her! Yet she knew that if she gave him the slightest suspicion of her self-sacrifice he would withhold his consent, and the result would be dire disaster.

She knew her father’s brave, unflinching nobility of character. Rather than he would allow her to marry a man whom she hated and mistrusted, he would face ruin—even death.

And for that reason she, pale and silent, gazing into the rising mists, accepted the man who had made her father’s honour the price of her own life.

“Tell the count,” she said, in a voice broken by emotion, “tell him that I am ready to be his wife.”

And her father, gladdened at what he, in his ignorance, believed to be a wise decision, bent to her and pressed his lips to her cheek with fatherly affection, in a vain endeavour to kiss her tears away.

They were not tears of emotion, but of a sweet and tender woman’s blank despair.

Chapter Twenty.

Tells the Truth.

On the following afternoon, in consequence of a telegram, the Minister of War drove into Florence, and met Vito Ricci at the club.

He seldom took the train to Florence because, on account of his position, the obsequious officials treated him with so much ceremony. He was a modest man, who at heart hated all bowing officialdom, much preferring to drive through the rich vineyards of the Arno valley to being received at the station by all the officials and having the ordinary traffic stopped on his arrival.

The Florence Club, an institution run upon English lines, is one of the most exclusive in Europe. It occupies the whole of a huge flat in the new Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele, handsomely appointed, with fine spacious rooms overlooking the busy centre of Florentine life. Its members are mostly men of the highest social standing in Italy, together with a select few of rich English and Americans, to whom membership gives the hall-mark of rank in that complex cosmopolitan world. In winter and spring its rooms are well-filled and its bridge-tables are well patronised, but in summer and autumn, when all Florence is away in the mountains or at the sea, it is deserted and handed over to the care of a couple of waiters, who scarcely see a member from one week’s end to the other.

The Deputy Ricci had telegraphed that he had no time to come up to San Donato, as he could only spend three hours in Florence; therefore the club was the most convenient place where they could meet and consult undisturbed. The urgency of Ricci’s message had aroused the other’s apprehensions that something was amiss.

“Ah!” cried the deputy in relief as the Minister entered the small card-room where he stood impatiently awaiting him. “I began to fear that my telegram had not reached you.” And the pair having shaken hands, Ricci went to the door and locked it.

Then when they crossed to the window, which gave a view of the wide-open piazza with its colossal statue in the centre, Ricci said—

“I left Rome this morning at nine, and I return by the express at six. I came here purposely to see you.”

“Has something occurred?” asked His Excellency quickly, glancing at the dark face of the Piedmontese lawyer who sat in the Chamber of Deputies and made politics his living.

“Yes,” was Ricci’s answer in a low half-whisper. “You recollect our conversation when we met last—about the impending crisis?”

“Yes. You promised, for certain considerations, to turn the political tide in my favour.”

“I have tried to do so, but have failed,” said the other in a deep, serious voice.

“Failed?” gasped the Minister as, in an instant, all the light died out of his face.

“The Opposition is too strong,” he explained. “Borselli has so completely won over the Socialists that he can cause them to dance to any tune he pleases.”

Camillo Morini’s face was blanched. Ruin was before him—ruin, utter and complete. He had trusted in Vito, feeling confidence in that adventurer’s ingenuity and influence. More than once this adventurer had cleverly turned the tide of popular thought, for certain journals were always open to write what the popular deputy for Asti dictated, and of course received substantial bribes for so doing. Yet at this most crucial moment he had failed!

“I made you the payment on condition that you were successful in rendering me the service,” remarked His Excellency hoarsely.

“I know, I know,” was the other’s response. “I have brought back the money to repay you.” And he took from his leather wallet a banker’s draft, which he handed to the Minister.

The tall, thin, refined-looking man stood motionless, his eyes fixed for a moment upon the slip of paper thus offered back to him. He recognised that the efforts of his secret agent, whose services had so often been invaluable, were of no avail, that his doom was sealed.

“No. Keep it, Vito,” he said hoarsely, with a dry, hollow laugh, that sarcasm born of desperation. “You have earned it—keep it.”

The other raised his shoulders in regret, and then, with a word of thanks, replaced the draft in his pocket.

There was a long silence. A company of bersaglieri, those well-set-up men with their round hats and cock’s plumes, were crossing the piazza, marching to the fanfare of trumpets, and behind them came a company of the Misericordia, that mediaeval confraternity disguised in their long black gowns with slits for their eyes, passing with their ambulance on an errand of mercy.

Morini gazed upon that weird, tragic procession hurrying across the square, and within him there arose grave and morbid reflections. He had worked for Italy, had given his whole soul to the reform of the army and the perfecting of the defences of the nation he had loved so well. It was more the fault of the system than his own that he had been guilty of dishonesty. The other members of the Cabinet were equally guilty of misappropriating the national funds. They were, indeed, compelled to do so in order to keep up their position, to maintain and pay the secret agents they employed, and to bribe the men of influence from seeking to expose their thefts.

Surely poor strangled Italy under the régime of his lamented Majesty King Umberto was in very evil case!

“I have trusted in you, Vito,” the Minister said simply, when he again found tongue, for the ugly truth had utterly staggered him.

“And I have done my best, your Excellency,” was the other’s reply. “In the Camera and out of it, I have worked unceasingly in order to try and win you back into favour, but Borselli is far too strong. He has influential friends, who believe they will obtain appointments and money if he is in office as Minister of War. Hence they are working by every means to place him in power.”

“And to cause my downfall and ruin!” murmured the unhappy man, staring blankly down at the piazza, still dazzlingly white in the hot sun-glare.

The adventurer sighed. To Camillo Morini he owed everything, and was conscious of the fact. He had no words to express his regret at his failure, for he knew too well all that it meant to the man before him.

“The success of the French secret service upon the Alpine frontier is the chief capital of the Opposition,” Ricci explained. “They say you have connived at it, and that Solaro was assisted by your daughter, the Signorina Mary.”

“Solaro assisted by her! How?”

“They have discovered that he was her friend. They were noticed together in Rome a year ago, when they allege that she gave him certain information gathered from your papers, which, in due course, reached the French Ministry of War!”

“Impossible?” declared the Minister. “They are acquainted, I know. But my daughter would never assist a traitor. It is infamous?”

“I quite agree with you. I cannot believe the signorina guilty of any such action. Yet the truth remains that the secrets of the Tresenta are actually in the hands of France.”

“I know,” groaned the unhappy man. “I know, Vito. But Solaro is disgraced and imprisoned. Surely that is enough for them?”

“No. You misunderstand. They are raising the cry everywhere that Italy is in danger—that you personally are culpable.”

“They will say next that I myself have sold the plans to France!” he cried bitterly.

“Ah! you know the kind of men Borselli has behind him—the most unscrupulous set of office-seekers in Italy. They will hesitate at nothing in order to arouse the public indignation against you. The fire is already kindled, and they are now fanning it into a flame. I tried to extinguish it. I offered a dozen bribes in various quarters, knowing that you would willingly pay to secure safety—but all were rejected because of Borselli’s promise to them of fat emoluments in the future.”

“Italy!” cried the Minister. “Oh, Italy! Must you fall into the hands of such a gang of thieves? I have done my best. Dishonesty has been forced upon me by this very man who now seeks to hound me out of office and take my place. I have been blind, Vito,” he added, “utterly blind.”

“Yes,” sighed the other, “I fear you have. Borselli has laid his plans too well, and arranged the conspiracy with too deep a cunning, to fail. I naturally believed that he could be fought with his own weapons, but I have found myself mistaken. We must, alas! face the worst! To-morrow the Socialists are to raise the question of Tresenta in the Camera; the vote will be taken, the Government defeated, and the whole blame will fall upon yourself. Borselli’s organs of the Press all have their orders to shriek and scream at you, to demand a searching inquiry regarding the disposal of certain sums set apart for the army—even to the giving of contracts to German contractors.”

Morini started, and his grave face went paler.

“Then Borselli has betrayed me—he, who is equally guilty with myself?”

“To his friends who intend to obtain Government appointments at high salaries he is innocent, while you alone are guilty,” Ricci pointed out. Then, sighing again, he added in a sympathetic voice,—for although a political adventurer he was nevertheless a firm personal friend of the Minister’s,—“I declare to you, Camillo, I have done my very utmost. But the weak point in our armour is the Tresenta affair, and the signorina’s acquaintance with the traitor Solaro. The natural conclusion, of course, is that she assisted him.”

“But what do they say of his friendship for her?”

“They allege that she was in love with him, but that, being only an officer with little else but his pay, he feared to approach you to obtain your permission to pay court to her, and that she, in order that he might obtain money from the French War Intelligence Department, gave him copies of certain secret documents which were in your possession.”

“But I have no plans of the Tresenta,” he declared quickly.

“There are other matters of which they allege the French have gained knowledge—details of the new mobilisation scheme.”

“Those papers are safely locked up at the Ministry,” he answered. “Mary has no knowledge of their existence.”

“If France obtained copies of them, would they be of service to her?”

“Of course. They would reveal our vulnerable points, and would show where she might strike us in order to destroy the concentration of our troops upon the frontier. Those papers are the most important of any we possess. The commanders of the various military districts have their secret orders, but they would be useless without the key to the complete scheme, which is kept safely from prying eyes in the Ministry. The French have surely not obtained a copy of that!” he gasped.

“It seems that they have—through your daughter, it is alleged.” Then he added, with a sigh, “They have all their facts ready to launch against you.”

“Their untruths—their lies!” he cried desperately, clenching his fist. “Ah, it is cruel! It is infamous! They even go so far as to brand my daughter—my dear Mary—as a traitress!”

And the strong man of Italy—the ruler of a European army—covered his face with his hands and sobbed aloud.

Vito Ricci had failed, yet was it any wonder that Morini’s enemies sought to attack his honour by making false and ignominious allegations against his daughter?

The unhappy man looked into the future of ruin, disgrace, perhaps prosecution by those very men who had been his friends, and saw but one way open from that shame—death.

And yet was not such a thought irreligious and cowardly? If they intended to attack his daughter, was it not his duty to defend her and vindicate her good name?

Ricci, unscrupulous as he had been through years of political life, sometimes holding by his intrigues the very fate of Italy in his hands, stood by in silence, his chin sunk upon his breast, for he knew too well that the ill-judged man to whom he was indebted for so much was to be made the scapegoat of the corrupt Ministry—he knew that the man before him was doomed, and yet he was utterly powerless to save him, even though he was prepared to go to any length to attain that end.

Then, a moment later, when Camillo Morini thought of that degraded officer, silent and suffering in the gloom of his prison, his mouth hardened, he held his breath, and his jaws became hard set. He remembered how that accused man had broken his sword before him and cast the pieces at his feet as guage of his innocence.

Yet the die was cast. To-day he, Camillo Morini, was Italian Minister of War, and the trusted adviser of his sovereign, King Umberto. But to-morrow—to-morrow? Ah! would that the morrow could not come.

Chapter Twenty One.

The Ear of the Minister.

After luncheon Camillo Morini left his wife, Mary, and the three young English girls, Anna and Eva Fry and Violet Walters, and retired as usual to his study. He had been silent and thoughtful at table, and his wife, ignorant of the crisis, attributed it to worry over state affairs, as was so often the case. A Minister’s life is never a happy one, and always full of grave responsibilities.

Her Excellency had seen her husband, to whom she was so devoted, age before his time, and in the years gone by she had greatly assisted him by her wise counsels and womanly help.

He looked at her in silence from where he sat at the head of the table, and sighed bitterly to himself. If he told her all, the shock would be too great for her. It might, indeed, have serious consequences. Therefore he was compelled to keep his secret from everyone save Mary.

The long green sun-shutters were closed, and the great, high, old frescoed room in which he sat alone was in half-darkness. He had told the liveried servant Francesco that he did not wish to be disturbed, and on entering had locked the door behind him. It was a dull, depressing room at any time, for the ponderous cases of old vellum-bound books breathed an atmosphere of a glorious but forgotten past. Gerino’s frescoed angels looked down upon him from the ceiling, and the ponderous beams still bore traces of bright colouring and faded gilt. Closed against the stifling heat outside, only a few rays of light struck across the big writing-table where His Excellency was sitting dejectedly, his head buried in his hands. From without came the monotonous hum of the insects and the harsh chirp of the cicale, the only live things astir under the burning Tuscan sun.

His wife and the girls had gone to their rooms for the siesta, previous to driving over to Montelupo to visit the Marchioness Altieri, and he was alone with his bitter grief and blank despair.

Little sleep had come to his eyes for the past week. Last night he had spent the hours under the steely sky, first down in the valley and then away over the mountains until he reached a point high up on a barren summit, where he sank down upon a heap of stones and watched the breaking of day over the Apennines. His thoughts were always of what Vito had revealed to him, and of his failure.

His return to the house had passed unnoticed, and after a wash he had taken his coffee and entered that room with a firm and desperate resolve. The whole morning he had occupied in placing his papers in order, arranging them carefully, tying them in bundles, and scribbling certain instructions upon each, with the names of the secretaries or other officials to whom they were to be handed.

He had worked on in grim silence, sighing sometimes and laughing bitterly to himself at others. More than once he murmured Mary’s name or that of his beloved wife, while nearly the whole time his kind eyes were filled with tears.

At luncheon he had motioned Francesco to give him a liqueur-glass of cognac with his coffee, a most unusual proceeding, for he was a very abstemious man, and now he sat motionless, his fingers in his grey hair, staring thoughtfully at the blotting-pad before him.

For fully half an hour he remained in that position, often murmuring to himself. He was reflecting upon all the bitterness of the past. He, the man whose name was one to conjure with in Italy, was at that moment without one single friend to give him help or sympathy.

Suddenly the silence of the room was broken by the whir-r of the telephone bell—the private line that connected him direct with his secretary at the Ministry at Rome three hundred miles away.

Quickly he rose, walked to the corner where the instrument was placed, and responded.

“The Onorevole Ricci desires to speak with your Excellency in private,” announced the voice which he recognised as one of his private secretaries.

“Va bene!” was the Minister’s anxious response.

Vito had, before they parted at the club, arranged to telephone to him in case of necessity.

“Are you there?” inquired the voice of the deputy for Asti.

“Yes. What is it?” asked the Minister, as through the instrument he distinctly heard the snap of the padded door of the telephone cabinet in the Ministry, which was now closed against listeners.

“It is as I thought,” Ricci said in a slow, distinct voice. “I have been active ever since my return, and it is just as I believed. Last night at the club, Lapi, Marchesi, Prosperi, and Montebruno were playing bridge together, and when they had finished at half-past two I joined them, and from their conversation learned that Montebruno is to bring forward the question of the French frontier in the Camera. This morning I saw Borselli and that young Frenchman Dubard walking together in the Corso. They were talking earnestly, and it seemed as though the count was telling Angelo something which surprised him. I stopped and spoke to them, but they appeared to betray some uneasiness at meeting me. What do you know about the Frenchman?”

“Nothing to his detriment,” was the Minister’s reply. “It is at present a secret, but he has asked me for Mary’s hand.”

“Then don’t give it.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like his intimate friendship with Borselli.”

“It was I who first introduced them. They met at dinner at my table,” Morini said, surprised at his spy’s warning. “What do you suspect?”

“I have no suspicions,” was the reply. “Only if he is an intimate friend of yours, as he seems to be if he is to marry the signorina, it is strange that he should at this moment be so constantly in Borselli’s company. I hear that nowadays the pair are inseparable. They walked to the Ministry, and were closeted together for over an hour. This has struck me as very curious, especially as I have just heard from a secret socialistic source that the question is to be asked by Montebruno in the Camera at five o’clock this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?” gasped His Excellency, his countenance in an instant white to the lips. “Then they really mean to ask the question?”

“Yes. I understand that the Opposition have made a sudden resolve, and that they intend to strike the blow against the Government immediately. To-morrow, unfortunately, all Italy will be aflame. I only regret that I am powerless to prevent it. I miscalculated my influence—I admit it.”

“Then I must face the worst, Vito!” remarked the unhappy man in a low, desperate voice, starting at his own whispered words as they seemed to ring through the lofty, old-world room.

“The instant I heard their intentions I made investigations, and found that nearly every Socialist deputy is in Rome ready to shriek that the safety of the kingdom is at stake. Our friend Borselli has indeed laid his plans very cleverly. But what puzzles me most is the reason Dubard is associating himself so closely with your enemy if he intends to marry your daughter! He surely cannot anticipate becoming your son-in-law and at the same time conspire to cause your downfall! To me it is a mystery, and that is why I urge you to be wary. That man has some hidden motive—depend upon it.”

Morini glanced mechanically across at that big green-painted steel door of the safe, and recollected Mary’s curious story of what she had witnessed.

“But he is very fond of Mary, and as I have given my consent to their marriage and my daughter has accepted him, he can surely have no motive in acting contrary to my interests.”

“He is your enemy, I repeat,” declared Vito Ricci. “I have made inquiries, and the results all point to one conclusion, namely, that he is acting with Angelo; and, moreover, I have been told on the best authority that certain of the charges to be made against you are based upon information supplied by him.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Be patient, and you will soon see whether the facts I have gathered are true. The question is to be put at five o’clock. I will telephone to you the result as soon as it occurs. I am going down to the Chamber at once, and will do my very utmost; but, as you can see, against such overwhelming opposition I am utterly powerless. If we could prevent Montebruno from putting the fatal question we might gain time and perhaps succeed, but how can we prevent Borselli carrying out his ingenious conspiracy when he is assisted in it by a hundred hungry office-seekers and adventurers of the Socialist party?”

“Try! Try!” urged Camillo in a wild, desperate voice. “Try, Vito—for the sake of my poor wife and daughter.”

“Remain firm,” came back the voice of the deputy. “Be patient, and watch the result of the attempt to wreck the Government.”

“You are hopeless. I recognise it in your voice!” wailed the desperate man. “I know too well that all the blame and opprobrium must fall upon me. They intend, as you have already told me, that I shall be the scapegoat, and that Angelo shall take my portfolio.”

The deputy returned no answer. What, indeed, could he say? His Excellency, who was a shrewd, far-seeing man, spoke the truth.

“Ah, I know!” cried the Minister. “The plot is complete. For me, the future is hopeless. Yet I am more than mystified at what you tell me regarding Dubard. Try and discover his motive. Do not fail me in this, Vito, I beg of you. My poor daughter’s future depends on that.”

“Trust me, my dear friend,” was the response. “Spinola is awaiting me outside, and we are going down to Montecitorio together. Have courage, and after five o’clock I will ring you up again. Addio!”

And a moment later the tiny bell rang, which showed that the communication had been cut off.

Then Camillo Morini, after glancing at his watch and finding that it was already three o’clock, stood immovable, his dark eyes staring across the silent room like a man in a dream.

“Courage! Courage!” he repeated to himself hoarsely, with a bitter laugh. “Courage—and for a man who has no to-morrow!”

In two short hours that voice from the Eternal City would, he knew, sound his doom.

“I am ready?” he laughed to himself. “I am quite ready. They think to place all the blame upon me, to hound me down and charge me with having sold Italy into the hands of her enemies?” And from his vest-pocket he took tenderly a tiny glass tube containing three small pink tabloids, and held it in the ray of light to satisfy himself that they were still there under the plug of cotton wool.

Then, as he replaced the tube in his pocket and slowly paced the room, his thoughts wandered to what Ricci had said regarding the man whom he had given leave to marry his daughter Mary.

“He has suspicions—but of what?” he asked, speaking to himself in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “That he should be friendly with the man who has so suddenly turned my enemy is certainly curious. But he surely cannot be seeking my ruin if he is to marry dear Mary?”

His eye caught the shining brass knobs of the safe door, and he halted before it. If Dubard had really examined those papers he might be aware of the truth! The very thought caused him to hold his breath. But next instant, when he reflected upon the morrow, his countenance relaxed into a bitter smile.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Concerns a Man’s Duty.

The man whose brilliant career had ended, longed to open the safe and to see whether certain papers it contained had really been disturbed. But even if he possessed the key which he had flung into the Arno on that memorable night, it could not be opened on account of the piece of wire which prevented the lever from working. The truth was therefore withheld from him.

Sometimes he regarded Mary’s story as ridiculous, while at others he wondered whether Dubard had really opened the safe in order to investigate. He had been inclined to think that Mary, watching through the keyhole as she had done, had not been able to see distinctly, and that in her limited range of vision had imagined that the safe was being tampered with. Ricci’s words on the telephone were, however, ominous. Apparently Dubard was in some mysterious way taking part in that vile and despicable plot which sought to brand Mary as a traitress equally with himself.

He turned from the safe and again flung himself into his writing-chair, where he remained a long time with his arms folded, staring straight in front of him.

At last he stirred himself, reached down a sheet of notepaper, and commenced to write rapidly a letter commencing, “My dear wife.” Briefly and to the point, he explained that he had fallen the victim of circumstances, although he had done his best for his king and country, and prayed for her forgiveness.

The next letter he wrote was upon the big official paper headed “Ministro della Guerra: Divisione prima,” and with tears in his eyes and hand trembling with emotion he penned his resignation to his sovereign. He sought to make neither explanation nor excuse.

“I have been your Majesty’s obedient and trusted servant and the servant of the Italian nation for twenty-one years,” he wrote, “and during my term of office as Minister of War my endeavour has been to improve the condition of the army and place it upon a level with those of other nations. Your Majesty has been pleased to signify your gracious pleasure at my efforts, and that, in itself, has been for me my highest reward. Circumstances which I could not foresee have, however, so conspired against me and mine that I am unable to remain longer in office, and therefore beg of your Majesty to relieve me of the portfolio I have so long held. I have enjoyed your Majesty’s marks of favour through many years, and I only beg most humbly to express a fervent hope that justice may be done to me, for, if so, it will be proved that I have never abused either my sovereign’s confidence nor disgraced the honour of the Italian people. I pen this resignation with deep and heartfelt regret—the regret of a man whose life has been for his country, and who is taking leave of an office he was proud to hold, and of a high and gratifying position in his sovereign’s gracious esteem.”

He read and re-read the words he had penned with such difficulty. Such was the ignominious end of his brilliant ministerial career! The resignation would go direct into the hands of His Majesty, yet before it could reach the Quirinale he would have escaped his enemies.

The third note he wrote was to Mary, a long and tender letter, in which he sought her forgiveness and declared himself innocent of the grave offences with which his enemies were charging him.

“I admit that I have had faults, that I have misappropriated the public money under dire necessity, in order to sustain my position as Minister. Yet it is an open secret that every member of the Cabinet has done the same. I am no better and no worse than the others. But as regards the sale of our military secrets to France, I am as innocent as I believe you to be. They may attack you, but do not heed their charges. Marry, be happy, and when you recollect your father, remember him only as one who has been more sinned against than sinning; one who has been the victim of a foul conspiracy, ruined and broken by the false and exaggerated charges of adventurers, but also one who, having given his life for his king and his country, has also forgiven his enemies. My estates will be sold—confiscated, probably—and you and your mother will be comparatively poor. Yet you will, at least, have your husband Jules to guard and protect you even though your father has left you. I need not speak of my regrets—for they are but vain ones. My reputation has been undermined, and I have fallen. I must face the inevitable, and do so with courage, and in the knowledge that you, Mary, my daughter, will forgive me. There are charges—base, false charges—which I cannot refute. Why should I give my enemies satisfaction by facing them? I cannot hope for justice either at their hands in a court of law or of the people themselves, on account of the widespread intrigue to secure my downfall. It is therefore best to turn my back upon them in contempt, and bid you, my beloved child, farewell.”

And as his thin, unsteady hand penned those final words in Italian, the hot tears dropped, blurring the writing and blistering the paper—the tears of a man bidding adieu to the one he most cherished—nay, to life.

Having folded the paper and addressed the envelope with the simple words, “To my daughter Mary,” he took from his finger a curious old Etruscan ring he wore, an ornament that had been found years ago during the excavations of the amphitheatre at Fiesole, and imprinting a kiss upon it, enclosed it in the envelope for her.

Then he glanced anxiously at his watch. Soon the dread news would be spoken into his ear. He sighed again, his face white and hard set, his pale lips trembling.

He leaned back in his padded chair, and all the past came before him in rapid review. Now he saw clearly how Angelo Borselli had, through all those years, been his cringing underling and for what object. The cunning Under-Secretary had squeezed secret commissions out of everyone for their mutual pecuniary benefit, yet at the same time he was always careful to incriminate the man whose position he was so cleverly scheming to occupy.

Mary had never liked him. A dozen times had she openly expressed her suspicion and distrust. But he had been blind—blind to everything. He was a man with, few vices himself, and never recognised them in others. Had his wife enjoyed good health she would nowadays have been his helpmate. But, unfortunately, owing to a carriage accident at Vichy five years before, her nerves were unstrung, and she was nearly always under medical treatment.

But there were mysteries connected with the curious conspiracy that had arisen against him—mysteries which he could not solve.

Had he acted rightly in suggesting to Mary that she should marry Jules Dubard? That point sorely troubled him. Ricci’s words over the telephone caused him to reflect deeply. His devotion to his daughter was complete, and he had suggested marriage with that man because he was an honourable gentleman of means, and had, during their acquaintance, rendered him certain valuable services in Paris. He looked upon Dubard as a friend of the family, and therefore had been much gratified when he had asked for Mary’s hand. Now, however, in those moments of despair as he reviewed the past, he recollected his daughter’s calm dignity when he had approached the subject, and how she had accepted the man with an inert disregard, as though she had only done so to obey his wish.

And this man was in active association with his bitterest enemy!

He remembered how at Orton, when the pair had met beneath his roof, they had betrayed no desire for each other’s company. Indeed, Borselli had dropped a plain hint that Dubard’s presence was unwelcome. And yet at the moment of the crisis they had become warm friends!

Was it possible that the man who only a few days before had asked for Mary as his wife could actually be plotting against him in secret? The idea seemed too absurd, and he dismissed it. Dubard had already shown himself as his friend, and with that open generosity that had caused his downfall, he declined to prejudge him until he received absolute proof. He was shrewd and far-seeing concerning affairs of state, but to his own interests he was often utterly indifferent.

He rose again, and for half an hour he paced up and down the marble floor of the long darkened room. The carriage-bells sounded outside, and as the noise of wheels died away he knew that his wife and the girls had gone out visiting.

“Mary! Mary!” he cried aloud to himself. “Have I done right? If not, forgive me!”

Of a sudden he thought of what Vito had told him in the club on the previous day regarding the startling allegation that his daughter had furnished information to the man now degraded and imprisoned as a traitor. Why had she begged for his release? That very fact in itself went far to prove that the allegation had some foundation in fact. He saw how his enemies, not content with attacking him, intended to denounce her as a traitress.

She had declared that Felice Solaro was innocent. Yet if his last decree as Minister of War was one of clemency, releasing the accused man, his action would surely be misconstrued into one of connivance at the betrayal of the secrets of that high-up Alpine fortress.

Was Solaro really guilty after all? At times he was convinced of it, because the proofs had been so plain, and the evidence of that young woman Nodari had been borne out by witnesses. Sometimes, however, he doubted. And if there was doubt, should not the accused be given the benefit of it? Ought not his last act to be one of fearless clemency?

Slowly he walked to the window and then back again.

“Yes. He shall have the benefit of the doubt,” he murmured, recollecting how the man had defiantly broken his sword before him. “It shall not be said that Camillo Morini did an injustice even to shield himself. My enemies will regard my action as proof of my guilt, and they are welcome to do so,” he added in a blank, hoarse voice. “My last action shall at least be one of justice.”

And reseating himself at his table, he took out a big sheet of official paper, upon which he wrote—

“It is hereby ordered that Felice Solaro, ex-captain of the 6th Alpine Regiment, convicted of treason, degraded, dismissed from the army of Italy, and imprisoned at the military prison of Turin, shall be immediately released and reinstated in his former rank, with pay to date from his arrest, as he is found not guilty of the false charges brought against him.

“The governor of the military prison at Turin and General Arturo Valentini commanding the forces on the Alpine frontier are ordered to execute this decree given under my hand this first day of October in the year one thousand nine hundred and one.”

Then, beneath, he signed that name that was magical with everything concerning the defences of Italy: “Camillo Morini, Il Ministro della Guerra,” after which he placed the document in an envelope and directed it to the prison governor.

He drew a deep breath. At risk of being branded as one who sold Italy’s secrets to the French War Office, he had extended to the accused man a clemency which he might not deserve. Nevertheless, he felt convinced that he had acted with justice, and hoped that after all his enemies would not denounce Mary as Solaro’s accomplice.

The allegation was, to him, a mystery. It was true that she had met the good-looking young captain in society, for he recollected perfectly well how, about eighteen months before, at a ball given by the Princess Capellari in Rome, he had noticed them dancing together. But Mary, being a great favourite, was much sought after by her male acquaintances, and he had never regarded the young Alpine captain as anything more than her mere acquaintance.

He, however, could not disguise from himself the fact that she had had access to those carefully guarded papers which constituted the complete scheme by which the millions of Italy’s armed men were to be mobilised in case of war. In order to preserve greater secrecy, he had employed her in his study in the palace in Rome to copy certain portions of the secret scheme relative to the army of the north—portions which it was necessary to place in the hands of the general commanding in case of necessity. He preferred her assistance in this rather than to employ one of the secretaries, for his confidence in her was complete. It was therefore amazing that this should actually be known to those who were seeking his ruin. They charged her with gaining knowledge of the whole scheme—which, indeed, she might easily have done—and with having afterwards handed a copy of it to Felice Solaro.

Such an imputation upon his daughter’s honour was infamous. That was Italy’s reward for all he had done for her!

He glanced at his watch again, and saw that it was already five o’clock, the fatal hour when that thin-faced adventurer, Paolo Montebruno—an advocate, of course, as well as a Socialist deputy—was to rise and launch his bombshell into the Chamber!

He held his breath, and as he sat staring before him fixedly in desperation and despair, he pictured to himself the scene at Montecitorio at that moment. He knew well that huge, semicircular Camera, and he had often sat listening to Montebruno shrieking in that quick, impetuous, high-pitched voice which inflamed the members of his wild-haired party. Yes! he knew well what hard invectives he would use when, as the mouthpiece of Angelo Borselli, he poured forth his terrible charges against the Minister of War.

In that silent room, now darker as the sun declined, the man whose doom was sealed conjured up to himself the staggering sensation which would be caused by those allegations that he, the trusted adviser of his sovereign, had foully betrayed his country. Already he was speaking, without doubt, and already the wires were flashing the astounding charges to every corner of Italy. In a few brief hours those irresponsible journals inspired and subsidised by Borselli would be full of the sensation, screaming that Italy had been betrayed, and demanding a prosecution.

He knew, from what Ricci had told him, that the charges could not fail to set all Italy aflame. The plot against him had been too cleverly prepared. The hour had passed. The Camera were already staggered at the magnitude and seriousness of the charges. He was already hounded down as a thief and a traitor.

His nervous hand went to his vest-pocket, and drawing forth the small glass tube, he gazed upon it with a bitter smile of satisfaction.

Of a sudden the telephone bell rang sharply behind him, causing him to start. The voice from across those high misty mountains would speak his doom.

For a few moments the despairing man sat motionless, bent forward upon the table staring at the tube, then rising slowly, he staggered across to the instrument, took the receiver in his trembling fingers, and mechanically placed it to his ear.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Plot.

On that same hot afternoon, while His Excellency was pacing the library in the high-up old villa in the Apennines, Dubard alighted from a cab in the Via Salaria, in Rome, and entered a fine modern mansion, the home of Angelo Borselli, Under-Secretary for War. He was conducted to a small sitting-room, where, in the dim light of the closed sun-shutters, the arch-schemer was taking his siesta in a long wicker lounge-chair, half dozing, and yet revolving within his brain every detail of his ingenious plan to oust the Minister from office and to replace him.

“Why, my dear Jules!” he cried in surprise as the young Frenchman entered. “I thought you had gone up to San Donato in order to be near your charmer when the blow fell.”

“No,” responded Dubard in a rather hard voice. “I am still here—in Rome.” Then after a brief pause he looked the sallow man straight in the face and added, “The question must not be asked in the Chamber. The blow must not be struck—do you understand?”

“What do you mean?” cried Borselli, starting to his feet. “What has happened? I see by your face that something has occurred.”

“It has,” was the other’s answer. “Montebruno must be stopped.”

“Why?”

“Because to seek to overthrow Morini at this moment is against our interests.”

“Oh!” laughed the other. “So you have just discovered that fact, have you? It is against your interest, of course, because you intend to marry his daughter; but not against mine.”

“I tell you that no revelation must be attempted,” said Dubard firmly.

“But why do you say this? What is there to prevent the question being put and the Ministry criticised?”

“It is unwise. It would be a serious blunder on your part.”

“And yet you have assisted me! My dear Jules, I don’t really understand you! Do you not recollect what we arranged in London when our reconciliation took place? Have you forgotten what we agreed only the day before yesterday?”

“I have forgotten nothing. I only speak plainly, and say that by making the revelations at the present moment you will imperil your own position.”

“No. I shall become Minister on Morini’s downfall. All is arranged. I am not the man to pick the chestnuts out of the fire for others—you surely know that?”

“But will you not be incriminated in the matter of certain secret commissions? Did you not rather unfortunately arrange matters and act as the go-between?”

“Of course. But I shall be careful enough that my own interest in the matter does not appear. The Minister of Justice is no friend of Morini,” he added, with a grin upon his thin, hard features.

“Montebruno must be stopped,” declared Dubard determinedly after a pause. “Let us telephone to him to come here.”

“He is already down at the Camera,” said the Under-Secretary, glancing at the little French timepiece on the mantelshelf. “The question is to be put at five, and it is already half-past four.”

“But it shall not be put!” cried the young man.

“Who will prevent it?” inquired Borselli, looking at him defiantly.

“I will,” he said sternly. “Let us be quite plain and outspoken, my dear Angelo. I tell you that you shall not imperil the future by this premature action. Morini knows of the conspiracy against him, and is prepared.”

“Well—and if he is? What then?”

“He may seek to defend himself in a manner of which you little dream.”

Borselli regarded his companion suspiciously, for he saw that he was in possession of some information which he was keeping to himself.

“You know something,” he said, fixing his dark eyes upon Dubard. “What is it?”

“I only know that it would be most injudicious to make any revelations, or to stir up the public indignation at the present moment,” was the response. “There is no time to lose. You must telephone at once to Montebruno and stop him.”

“Impossible. The whole matter is arranged. All the Socialist deputies are in their places awaiting the bolt to be launched.”

“Then let them wait. It shall not be launched to-day,” replied Dubard in a clear, distinct voice.

“But it shall?” exclaimed Borselli. “It has taken me nearly three years to complete preparations for this coup, and I do not intend to abandon it merely because you hint mysteriously that it is premature. I speak quite candidly upon this point.”

“And I speak equally candidly when I tell you that Montebruno must not put the question to the Chamber. There are reasons—serious reasons.”

He said nothing of his compact with Mary or of his demand of His Excellency for her hand.

“And what are they, pray?”

“Well,”—and he hesitated. “Well, if the coup is made at the present moment you will merely imperil yourself, that is all I can say. Morini will retaliate, and charge you with certain things which will place you in a very awkward position.”