William Le Queux (continued 6)
Reading edition
But feeing the Frenchman determinedly, he said—
“The reason I invited you out here was to tell you frankly my intention, and so allow you opportunity to leave the place before the truth is known. I intend to go to-morrow to the Minister and tell him exactly the true state of affairs. He is in utter ignorance that it was you who stayed the adverse tide against him in the Chamber of Deputies—in ignorance that you made that vile, despicable agreement with his poor unfortunate daughter. When I have spoken we shall see whether he will allow the marriage to take place.”
“And when you have spoken we shall also see whether he will not hear my own story.”
“I am prepared for any allegation you may make against me,” responded George. “You may ruin me—you may do what you and your friends will—but you shall never marry Mary Morini!”
“I defy you!”
“Very well—we shall see.”
“Tell the Minister what you choose, but remember that if you endeavour to create friction between us, I will show you no mercy,” he cried between his teeth. “Until now I have been silent, but—”
“You’ve been silent because you know too well that you fear to speak—you fear to make any allegations against me. I know rather too much!” declared the Englishman, with confidence.
“Much or little, it does not concern me in the least,” replied the foreigner. “You create unpleasantness, and eh bien! I do the same.”
“Then you actually intend that that desperate woman, in deadly fear of her father’s ruin, shall become your wife?”
“I do.”
“Then I tell you, Dubard,” he cried, “that I will not allow it! I will never allow it. I will tell the truth, and bear the consequences.”
“The consequences!” exclaimed the Frenchman in a deep, serious voice, his teeth hard set in anger which he strove to suppress, but which nevertheless rose by reason of his quick foreign nature. “The consequences! Have you realised them all? You seem to have a short memory, my dear friend—and a short memory is often convenient. Shall I refresh it for you?” he asked, as the man before him clutched at the wooden rail of the stile for support, although striving valiantly to preserve a defiant calm. “Shall I recall to you the memory of those sunny winter days when your employer Morgan-Mason took you with him to the Villa Puget at Mentone, when he was the guest of his brother-in-law, General Felix Sazarac? Shall—”
“I know! I know!” cried the young Englishman. “I know all—why should you recall all that?”
“To refresh your memory, my dear friend,” responded Dubard, with withering sarcasm. “Do you recollect how that we were friends in those days—you, Felice Solaro, and myself? Solaro and I were at the Hôtel National, and you were given a room at the villa by your employer’s hostess, his elder sister, Madame Sazarac—who had married the general. Do you not remember these days, spent at Monte Carlo, or up at La Turbie, our luncheons, our dinners at the Paris, and our little games at the tables? Oh yes, you had a merry time then—we all had—even the poor general himself. And then—”
“Stop!” Macbean implored, raising both his hands. “Enough!—I know! Heavens!—as though I could ever forget!”
“But you have forgotten, it seems, or you—of all persons—would never seek to come between me and the woman I am to marry. Therefore hear me—once and for all. And when you have heard, reflect well before you adopt a course which must inevitably reflect upon yourself—nay more, which must cause your own ruin. Do you recollect how your employer Morgan-Mason had gone alone to Marseilles to meet his Indian manager who was returning to England, and how you, being alone, the general often invited you to ride with him up the Corniche road, and sometimes into the mountains? He was fond of the English because his wife was English, and he had taken a great fancy to you. Being in command of the Alpine frontier defences in France, he had often to make inspections of those high-up fortresses that guard the passes into Italy, and one day he invited you to ride with him away up to the fortress of Saint Martin Lantosque that overlooks Monte Malto.”
“I will not hear you!” cried Macbean hoarsely. “Enough! Enough!”
But the Frenchman continued in the same quiet, hard, meaning tone, his voice sounding clear in the quiet of night.
“With Solaro I chanced to call at the villa just as your horses were brought round, and we stood upon the steps and saw you mount. You waved your hand triumphantly to us, and trotted away at the side of the man who held the south-east frontier of France under his command. Do you recollect, as you rode down the drive bordered by its flowering azaleas, how you turned and looked back at us, in wonder whether we suspected your intentions? Perhaps not—the truth remains the same,” he added, his face now closer to that of the man against whom he was making that withering accusation. “You rode nearly twenty miles into the mountains, and were high up above the Vesubie, in a wild, solitary district devoid of any human habitation, when, it being hot, you offered your brandy-flask to the general, who was without one—for you yourself had surreptitiously taken it from his holster prior to setting out. Being thirsty, he took a long drink. Half an hour later he felt ill, and dismounted. And in an hour the poor fellow was dead!”
George Macbean stood still, gripping the moss-grown rail, glaring at his accuser, though no word escaped his lips.
“The cognac you gave to the general was never suspected by the doctors, who declared the fatality to be due to an internal malady from which he had long suffered, and which was known might cause sudden death. The gallant officer was buried with military honours in Nice, and none were aware of the truth save Solaro and I. We knew that a sum of money which the general had upon him had been stolen, and further, that the brandy you had given him you had not dared to drink yourself. In secret, we charged you with the general’s murder, for the sake of the money upon him; but you defied us, and made a gallant fight to brave it out. But it was useless. Solaro declared that you had concealed the money, whereupon you offered to allow us to search your possessions, and we found a draft on the Credit Lyonnais in the flap of your writing-case. You offered to allow us to seal, before your eyes, the brandy in the bottle in your room, together with that remaining in your flask, and we sent it to be analysed by an analyst in Paris whom you yourself named. You hoped to mislead us, to disarm our suspicions by allowing us to make all the inquiries we, as friends of the general, thought fit! Ah! that was a fatal mistake, my friend! You condemned yourself. The analyst’s report does not lie. I still have it here, in my pocket-book, and do you know what it says? It states that the contents of both bottle and the flask filled from it were submitted to the tests of Marsh, Reinsch, and Fresenius, and in each case the result was the same—the cognac contained sufficient of a specific irritant poison of an arsenical nature to render a single mouthful of it a fatal dose! This document,” he added, touching his breast-pocket as he spoke, “proves you to be the murderer of Felix Sazarac—you poisoned him deliberately when up alone in that mountain pass, and Solaro found in your effects part of the money you stole from the dead man’s pockets?”
Macbean tried to speak, but his throat contracted; he was unable. Alas! that terrible truth had been ever before him since that fatal day in spring, when his life had been fettered. Try how he would, he could not put from him the horror of those awful hours. There were, unfortunately, witnesses against him, witnesses who could prove his guilt and send him to an assassin’s punishment.
“Well?” he managed to gasp at last in a low, half-frightened voice, his heart beating quickly as he half turned and faced his accuser.
“Only this,” answered Jules Dubard determinedly; “silence for silence! You understand now, my friend—silence for silence!”
And then the two men parted.
The morning dawned bright and sunny—the morning of Mary’s wedding day—one of those fresh, brilliant days in June when the grass-country looks its gladdest and best.
The bells were pealing merrily from the old church-tower of Orton in honour of the event, upon the lawn a large marquee had been erected, and the men down from London with the wedding breakfast were bustling everywhere, while the excitement out in the village was intense.
Morini and his wife were both happy at the match, and in the long dining-room some of the presents were displayed, including a splendid pearl collar from Her Majesty the Queen of Italy. The house was full of visitors, several of them being persons of the highest aristocracy in Italy, who had been specially invited over for the wedding, and there was gaiety everywhere.
The only person who took no part in the bustle was the bride herself, for alone in her bright little room she was upon her knees imploring the Divine aid for strength in that hour of her greatest trial.
During those past weeks, as each day brought her nearer that hateful union, she had pondered deeply, trying to devise some means by which to escape, but alas! she saw too well that refusal would only bring ruin upon her father’s head; while, if she did marry Dubard, she had no security that the blow would not fall upon her family afterwards. So she had been compelled to bow to the inevitable, to make that sacrifice of her love, of her very life.
Those who had seen her in Rome lolling in her splendid carriage drawn by that perfect pair of English bays, dancing in those gilded salons, or laughing with her neighbour at dinner at one or other of the foreign embassies, had surely never dreamed that that bright, happy girl, whose engagement was discussed everywhere, had such a heavy burden of sorrow within her young heart.
Before her lay her bridal gown, a magnificent creation from the Rue de la Paix, with old lace that had once belonged to the extinct royal house of Naples. But when she gazed upon it she burst into a flood of tears, and sank again upon her knees in desperation.
Teresa came at last and tried to calm her.
“Signorina! signorina!” she exclaimed, stroking the dark hair, which, unbound, fell upon her shoulders. “Your eyes will look so red. Oh, surely you should be happy to-day!”
“Happy!” groaned the unfortunate girl bitterly, as she slowly staggered to her feet. “There is no happiness for me—none—none.”
At last the pale-faced girl, summoning up all the courage she possessed, seated herself before the mirror, and having allowed Teresa to dress her hair for the bridal, proceeded, with the help of Santina, her mother’s maid, her mother, and Vi Walters—who was one of the wedding guests—to put on the gown with its wonderful train and real orange-blossoms from the orangery at San Donato.
Meanwhile, however, in the study below, Camillo Morini was sitting with his enemy, Angelo Borselli, who had practically invited himself on a flying visit to the ceremony, and whom he could not well refuse without giving him a direct insult. Morini hated the man who had ever been his evil genius, but in the present circumstances dared not openly quarrel with him. Therefore he treated him with diplomatic friendliness.
They were smoking their cigars together when Dubard, elegantly dressed, entered merrily, and greeted them. Borselli had only arrived late on the previous night, therefore he had not seen him before.
“Well, my friend!” cried the Sicilian, “I congratulate you. You will have the best of wives in all the world—and the best of fathers-in-law, that I’m sure.”
“Ah, I’m certain I shall,” replied the bridegroom. “But what great preparations are being made!”
“Half the country will be here to the reception later on,” Morini remarked, laughing.
“Where is your secretary—Macbean?” inquired Dubard.
“He is not here yet. He is staying with his uncle over at Thornby,” was His Excellency’s reply.
And the bridegroom smiled to himself. His words of the previous night would, he knew, have their effect.
Silence for silence!
Chapter Thirty Nine.
Revelations.
At that moment, however, the door suddenly opened, causing the three men to turn and glance, when, to their surprise, they saw, standing before them, the man whose name had just been mentioned. Dubard held his breath. Macbean’s face was bloodless, his lips quivered, his hands were clenched, his whole countenance seemed to have altered in those moments of tension and determination, and as he closed the door behind him and advanced boldly into the room, trying to speak in a cool voice, he addressed the Minister—
“Your Excellency, the tragedy of this marriage must not take place—for your own sake, as well as for your daughter’s.”
In an instant the three men were upon their feet, electrified by the Englishman’s startling words.
“What do you mean?” asked Morini, looking at him amazed.
“Yes,” cried Dubard, stepping forward angrily. “Let us hear what this fellow means.”
“You wish to hear,” exclaimed Macbean, facing the Frenchman boldly. “Then listen! I allege that Miss Morini has been forced into this marriage by you—and by that man there,” he added, pointing to the sallow-faced Sicilian. “If you doubt me,” he said, turning to the Minister of War, “ask her yourself. This man Dubard made a promise to her that, in exchange for her hand, he would prevent the crisis which Borselli had arranged to bring ruin and disgrace upon you. You will recollect the mysterious letter received by Montebruno when he was already upon his feet in the Chamber. That letter was sent by your enemy, Borselli, at Dubard’s instigation, because your poor daughter had consented to sacrifice herself in order to save you. It is my duty to tell you this, your Excellency. You have been pleased to take me into your service, to treat me almost as a confidential friend, and it is my duty therefore to speak the truth and to save Miss Mary from falling the victim of this man?”
“Victim!” cried Dubard quickly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you intend to marry her, and having done so, your friend here, General Angelo Borselli, will strike his blow at His Excellency—a merciless blow, that will crush and ruin him.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the Sicilian. “All this is a mere fiction! He loves your daughter himself, my dear Camillo. There is lots of gossip about it in Rome.”
“During my employment in the Ministry I have kept both ears and eyes open,” Macbean went on. “I know well with what devilish ingenuity you have plotted against your chief, how you have forced him deeper and deeper into financial intrigue, in order that your revelations may be the greater, and how, in order to propitiate your accomplice Dubard, you have stayed your hand until this marriage is effected.”
“Basta!” cried the Sicilian. “I will not be insulted by a common employee like you!”
“Nor I!” exclaimed Dubard, his face white with passion, as he turned to Macbean. “My affairs are no concern of yours—they concern myself and the lady who is to become my wife. I am amazed that you, of all men, should dare to come forward and make these unfounded charges against us. Hitherto I have kept my silence, but as you have sought exposure I will speak the truth. Then your employer shall judge as to which of us is worthy of confidence, and which—”
“I make no plea for myself,” declared George, quickly interrupting him. “I merely intervene on behalf of a broken and defenceless woman—the woman you have so cleverly entrapped.”
But Dubard only laughed drily, and said—
“Very well. Let His Excellency listen to you—and afterwards to me.”
“Then let me speak first,” cried the Englishman desperately. “Let me tell you myself the truth of the Sazarac affair.”
Borselli’s face fell, and Morini’s countenance changed colour in an instant. Mention of that name was sufficient to cause both men quick apprehension.
“You need not do that,” the Sicilian managed to say. “But I will,” Macbean went on. “You shall hear me. I know the truth is an unwelcome one, but lest others shall tell you any garbled version of it, I will be frank and fearless with you. In the winter three years ago I was taken by Mr Morgan-Mason, whose secretary I was, to stay with General Felix Sazarac, whose wife was my employer’s elder sister, the younger sister having married a Mr Fitzroy. The general, who was in command of the French garrisons on the Alpine frontier, lived at the Villa Puget, at Mentone, and at the Hôtel National there was staying his friend Dubard—the man before you. We became friendly, for the general often invited Dubard to dine at the villa, and after a time there arrived in Mentone at the same hotel an acquaintance of the count’s—a young Italian gentleman of means named Solaro, who was also introduced at the Villa Puget, and who also became one of our intimate friends. Curiously enough, however, the general did not seem to care for Solaro’s company, yet he frequently invited me to ride out with him, and gave me good mounts from the barracks. Well,” he went on, after a slight pause, “all went merrily for over two months, until one day, when Mr Morgan-Mason had gone to Marseilles, the general invited me to ride with him up into the mountains to the fortress above Saint Martin Lantosque, which he had to inspect. The morning was a bright one, with all the prospects of a blazing day, and we first rode across the plain behind Mentone, and then began to ascend the rough mountain paths into the Alps. We had ridden some fourteen miles or so, when the general suddenly exclaimed, ‘That rascally servant of mine has forgotten my flask again!’ ‘Never mind,’ I called to him. ‘I have mine. I filled it with cognac and water before starting.’ ‘That’s good!’ he laughed.—‘We shall want a drink before long. It’s going to be a blazer to-day!’ And then we toiled on and on, up the steep rough paths that wound higher and higher over the mountains. Just before midday, however, the general pulled up, removed his cap, and declaring that he was thirsty, took a long pull at the flask I handed to him.”
“And then?” asked Morini almost involuntarily, as he stood listening to the story.
“I was not thirsty myself, so I put the flask back into the holster, and we rode on again, laughing together and enjoying the glorious panorama at our feet. Half an hour later, however, my companion complained of queer pains in his head and giddiness, which he attributed to the sun, and pulling up he dismounted. We were then in a lonely spot in a district utterly unknown to me. The general grew worse, being seized by strange cramping pains in the stomach and a curious twitching of the face. I gave him some water from a spring close by, and bathed his head, but he grew worse, and seemed to lapse into a state of coma. Suddenly he opened his eyes, and motioning to me that he wished to speak, he gasped faintly, ‘Tell them I did it because those Jews were pressing me—I regret it—regret—but it is useless!’ Then after a pause he managed to articulate, ‘My wife!—my dear wife—my love to her, M’sieur Macbean—my love to her—I—I’—Then his jaw dropped, and I found him dead upon my arm! This fatal seizure appalled me. I shouted, but no one heard. I was miles and miles from civilisation in the centre of the wildest district of the Alps, therefore I covered the dead man’s face with his handkerchief, tethered his horse, and rode back ten miles or so to a little village we had passed. The general was brought back to Mentone that night, and at the Villa Puget the scene was a sad and tragic one. I gave poor madame her husband’s dying message, but his words about the Jews puzzled her. She could not understand them in the least. It was a mystery.”
“They were words invented by you,” declared Dubard in a hard tone. “Tell these gentlemen the truth! It was you who gave the poor fellow the cognac—you who poisoned him!”
“I gave him the brandy, I admit,” exclaimed Macbean quickly, “but I swear I was unaware that it was poisoned!”
“You filled it from the bottle in your room. Now you have gone so far, tell the whole truth.”
“I am not afraid,” Macbean went on boldly. “On the night when the body of the general was brought home you came with Solaro to my room, locked the door, and charged me with administering poison—although three doctors had seen him, and as they had all previously treated him for a malady which they knew might terminate fatally on too violent exercise, they had decided that no post-mortem examination was necessary. Your allegation astounded me, but you asked for the key of the cupboard wherein I kept the bottle of brandy. There was some remaining, as well as the remains of that mixed with water in the flask. As I denied that I had poisoned him you both urged that, in satisfaction, I should seal both bottle and flask and submit them to some analyst in Paris. This I willingly did, entirely unsuspecting any plot. I packed them in a box, and myself saw them despatched.”
“And the analyst’s report is here!” exclaimed Dubard, waving the paper triumphantly before the speaker’s eyes. “It proves that you deliberately poisoned General Sazarac, while Solaro, if he were here, could prove further that he found in your writing-case the draft which you stole from the dead man’s pocket?”
“I know only too well the circumstantial evidence that was against me,” said Macbean, addressing Morini. “I had been the victim of a clever and ingenious plot in which the unfortunate officer had lost his life. But why? There seemed no motive whatever. I returned to England a suspected man, and from that day I did not come face to face with Dubard until I recognised him last year driving on the Rugby road, and heard to my amazement that he was engaged to your daughter Mary. Ever since then I have desired to re-encounter this man, and to clear myself of the terrible charge he brings against me.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” inquired His Excellency, astonished at the entirely new complexion placed upon that tragic affair which had caused him so much mental anxiety and so many sleepless nights.
“I can only declare my complete innocence. I was, no doubt, the agent who administered the fatal cognac, but I certainly was ignorant of it, and would never have poisoned the man who had showed me so many kindnesses.”
“Then I think it is only in the interests of justice if this report of the analyst is given into the hands of the Paris police,” remarked the Sicilian, who had remained silent, but whose active mind nevertheless had been at work to discern some means of effectually closing Macbean’s mouth.
The young Englishman started. He had not expected such a suggestion. He foresaw the difficulty of proving his innocence when such witnesses as Solaro and Dubard were against him.
“For the present, we will leave that aside,” said the Minister, in as quiet a voice as he could. “My first duty, as father of my child, is to investigate this allegation of Macbean’s,” and he touched the bell. To the man who answered his summons he said in English in a determined tone—
“Ask Miss Mary to kindly step down here for one moment. I desire to see her without a minute’s delay. Say that I have some urgent news for her.”
“Very good, your Excellency.” And the door was closed again.
Dubard and Borselli exchanged uneasy glances; but a dead silence had fallen between the four men—a silence that was broken by the sound of wheels out on the gravelled drive. There were lots of coming and going in that bustling day, wedding guests arriving, and the bride’s luggage being despatched, so as to meet her in London before they left for Paris on the following morning.
The pause was painful. Macbean looked at the pair who had for so long been united hand and glove against the Minister, and recognised the spirit of murder in their glance. They would have killed him had they dared, for they knew too well that he had now revealed to the Minister the actual truth. Borselli, who had enticed him to Rome hoping to ensure his secrecy over the Sazarac affair, had placed his own head in the lion’s mouth by so doing. It was seldom he made an error in his clever schemes, but he knew that he had done so on this occasion, and that it would require all his ingenuity and cunning to escape from such a compromising situation.
The minutes passed, but neither spoke a word. Each man feared to utter a sentence lest it should be seized upon and misconstrued, while the Minister himself, silent and distinguished-looking, glanced from one to the other, and waited for his beloved daughter to enter and to speak.
Chapter Forty.
The Story of Captain Solaro.
At last there was a light footstep out in the hall. The door opened, and she entered, radiant in her wonderful bridal gown and orange-blossoms, her long sweeping train behind, but without her veil, of course, her beautiful face revealed in all its haggard pallor.
Dubard sprang forward to welcome her; but ere he could take her hand he fell back in utter dismay, for behind her, silhouetted in the doorway, stood the figure of a man in a grey felt hat and a light overcoat.
“Great heavens!” gasped Macbean, who at the same moment recognised the new-comer. “Solaro! Felice Solaro!”
“Yes,” replied the other, in a quiet, distinct voice, as he came into the room behind the Minister’s daughter in her rustling silks. “I am fortunately here, not by His Excellency’s decree, but by the generous clemency of the king himself, who, on the occasion of his birthday, three days ago, and in consequence of a petition of my family, gave me my liberty with others. I heard what was in progress, and so I have travelled here to ascertain the truth, and to clear myself of the base and scandalous charges those men who stand there have brought against me,” and he raised his finger and pointed to the Sicilian and the Frenchman, both of whose faces had, on the instant of recognising him, become entirely changed.
“It seems, signorina,” he said in Italian, turning his pale, emaciated face to Mary, who stood in the centre of the room utterly dumbfounded at the dramatic scene, “it seems that by good fortune I am here in order to save you, your father, and the Signor Macbean from these two men who have so very cleverly plotted your father’s ruin, your own marriage, the disgrace of the Signor Englishman, and my own imprisonment.”
“Do you allege that they conspired to obtain the conviction against you?” cried the Minister, amazed.
“Listen, and I will tell you everything. Then you yourself shall take what steps against them that you desire.”
“I shall not remain to hear that traitor’s insults!” cried the Sicilian, moving quickly towards the door; but Solaro, noticing his action, stepped back, locked the door behind him, and placed the key in his pocket, saying, “You will remain, general. You have to answer to me.” Then, after a brief pause, he commenced—
“It may be news to you all, except the Under-secretary, that Jules Dubard is not a member of the French nobility at all, but a person who, while posing as a count, is one of the secret agents of the French Minister of War. It was for this reason that he desired to be married in England, as the unwelcome truth would have been shown upon his papers.”
“A spy!” gasped the bride, standing open-mouthed on the eve of her deliverance.
“That is the vulgar term for such persons,” Solaro said. “It happened about four years ago that Borselli and he met, and the former, finding him a shrewd and clever adventurer, resolved to make use of him to gain a triumph over the Minister Morini. Borselli had also met General Sazarac at the Jockey Club in Paris, and had won from him several large sums at cards, accepting from him a number of promissory notes. Having done this, he discovered, to his delight, that Sazarac was actually in command of the Alpine frontier of France, therefore he proceeded with slow deliberation to win over Dubard from the French service, by promises of position when the Minister Morini was overthrown, and to unfold a plot which is a good specimen of his amazing ingenuity. Briefly, it was to place the promissory notes in the hands of some unscrupulous Jews in Antwerp, in order that they should press for payment, and when they did so, Dubard, who was attached to Sazarac’s division of the French army, should suggest a course out of the difficulty—namely, to sell to the Italian Ministry of War certain plans of the frontier defences which we were very anxious to obtain. This was done. Sazarac, in desperate straits for money, listened to his friend Dubard’s evil counsel, and agreed to allow the plans of the whole of the defences from Mount Pelvoux to the sea to be copied for a sum of two hundred thousand francs. These were the secrets which we had desired for many years to know, and the first I knew of the matter was a summons to the Ministry in Rome, where I saw Borselli, who introduced me to Dubard, and instructed me, because I spoke French perfectly and was a good draughtsman, to go to Mentone, take quarters at the Hôtel National, and make copies in secret of certain documents which Dubard would hand me from time to time.”
“You were in our service!” declared the Sicilian.
“Certainly,” he answered; and then proceeding he said, “I went to Mentone, and commenced the work of copying those plans which the general allowed Dubard to abstract from the safe at headquarters and bring to me in secret. While there we both became on friendly terms with the Englishman Macbean, who was secretary to the French general’s brother-in-law, and who was of course in entire ignorance of what was in progress. After about two months, during which Dubard and I led the life of wealthy idlers on the Riviera, the copying was complete, I had sent the last batch of tracings to Rome by the official of the Ministry who came specially to convey them, and was awaiting further instructions, when one evening, after we had seen Macbean and the general going out for a ride together, Dubard entered the hotel and said he had heard in a café the startling report of the general’s sudden death. We at once went round to the Villa Puget, and there sure enough he was lying dead, with madame inconsolable with grief. The doctors had declared death due to natural causes, as he had long been an invalid, and had been warned against riding too far. But Dubard took me aside in the garden and told me that he held a distinct suspicion that the general had been poisoned. The sum agreed to be paid for the plans had, he said, been paid on the previous day, and probably he had some of it upon him, which might serve as a motive for the crime. He suggested poison, and declared that he had suspicion of Macbean. At first I refused to entertain such a theory, but he persisted in it, and at his suggestion I accompanied him when he openly charged the Englishman with the crime. Macbean at once offered us every facility for the analysing of the cognac and the contents of his flask, sealed them up with his own seal, and packed them before our eyes, addressing them to a well-known chemist in the Rue Rivoli in Paris, and I despatched them. The report came back that there was an arsenical poison in both the bottle and the flask. It seemed that Macbean had tried to bluff us to the very last, but the most damning fact was that on searching his effects I discovered a draft on the Credit Lyonnais for fifty thousand francs from a firm in Genoa, but really emanating from our Ministry of War, and part of the agreed payment for the plans. This was concealed in the flap of his writing-case.”
“So the natural conclusion was that Mr Macbean was a poisoner!” remarked Mary, standing dumbfounded.
“Of course,” he said. “I certainly believed that he was, and that he was only allowed his liberty through Dubard’s clemency, until about three months after the affair, when Dubard and I being together at the Grand Hotel in Venice, my curiosity was one day aroused, and I pried into his despatch-box during his absence. Among other papers I found this letter,” he said, producing one from his pocket. “It is undated and unsigned, but it suggests that if some secret means were employed to induce S’s (meaning Sazarac, of course) fatal illness, two ends would be achieved. France would never suspect that he had sold the plans, and the payment of two hundred thousand francs need not be made.”
“Fifty thousand francs of that money Borselli handed back to me,” the Minister admitted.
“And he kept the remainder himself,” declared Solaro. “This letter is in his handwriting—and is in itself evidence that he instigated the general’s death, and that this man, who is his accomplice, carried it out so cleverly that the whole of the evidence pointed to Macbean. Indeed, this is proved by recent events, and by the manner in which the pair have sought to close my mouth regarding the ugly affair. Last summer I was suddenly arrested, and was amazed to discover how very neatly the man Dubard, whom I thought my friend, had had me watched in Paris and in Bologna, had bogus plans of the Tresenta prepared and sent to Filoména Nodari, and how these and other documents—one purporting to be the mobilisation scheme itself—passed through that woman’s hands into those of a French agent. Evidence—foul lies, all of it—was given against me; I was condemned as a traitor—I, the man who had copied all the plans of France in the interests of my own country—and then I realised how cleverly Borselli and Dubard, the ex-agent of France, were acting in conjunction, and that whoever was guilty of poor Sazarac’s assassination it certainly was not the Englishman. I had, before my arrest, mentioned the death of Sazarac casually to Dubard, and inquired of the whereabouts of Macbean. It was this remark of mine which apparently aroused his suspicions, and which caused both he and Borselli to secure my imprisonment for a twofold reason: first, to ensure my silence; and secondly, so as to give the Socialists a weapon by which they might hound your Excellency from office for countenancing a traitor. This was the only way in which your Excellency’s popularity and power could be undermined; but so craftily did they go to work, and so cleverly was every detail of the conspiracy thought out, even to the opening of your safe at San Donato with a key made from the impression of the original key taken by Borselli two years before. You made away with the key, hoping to conceal the evidences of your peculations; but their ingenuity was simply marvellous, for they were playing with the safety and prosperity of a kingdom.”
“But General Borselli asked me recently to induce my father to release you,” said Mary.
“In order to still further incite the popular feeling against His Excellency. He probably believed that I dared not denounce him as the instigator of the assassination of Sazarac, and that with my release his coup could be effected against your father after your marriage with his accomplice. It is, indeed, intended to strike the blow at the first sitting of the Chamber next month.”
“Then I think we are now fully prepared to combat it,” remarked the tall, grey-haired Minister in a cool tone, as he glanced at the Sicilian. “When I received the fifty thousand francs of the sum which was to have been paid from the secret service fund to General Sazarac, I was led to believe that, owing to a certain plan not being forthcoming, only half the sum had been paid to him. I had no knowledge of a tragedy until long afterwards, when, to my horror, I discovered for myself that there had been some foul play, and that I was morally responsible as an accessory.”
“I am not to blame altogether,” declared the Frenchman desperately. “Borselli sent me the cognac from Rome already prepared, and according to his directions I substituted the bottle in the Englishman’s room and at the same time abstracted the general’s flask from his holster. I also concealed, at Angelo’s suggestion, the banker’s draft in Macbean’s writing-case.”
“You scoundrel!” cried George, turning upon the white-faced criminal whom his well-beloved had so narrowly escaped. “And you, Borselli, have sent your spy, that woman Nodari, to investigate Mr Morgan-Mason’s papers because you fear he holds something that incriminates you?”
“Silence!” cried the Minister, holding up his hand. “There must be no recriminations here in my house. I have been misled by Borselli as to this man’s position and antecedents. The wedding will not take place, after these scandalous revelations, but there is still one duty before me, as Minister of War,” and turning to his writing-table he took two sheets of paper, and upon each he scribbled some hurried words. One he handed to Borselli, who glanced at it and threw it from him with an imprecation.
It was his dismissal from the office of Under-Secretary of War.
The other, which he handed to Solaro, caused him to cry aloud with joy, for it was his reinstatement in the army and a declaration of his innocence of the crime of which he had been charged.
Then Solaro unlocked the door, and turning to the Sicilian and Dubard, who were standing together pale, crestfallen, and ashamed, he said—
“Go, you pair of assassins. Don’t either of you put foot in Italy again, or I’ll take it upon myself to prosecute you for your vile plot and my own false imprisonment. Then, at your trial, the whole affair will come out. You hear?”
“Yes!” muttered Dubard, with flashing eyes. “We hear your threats.”
And in silence both the elegant bridegroom and his dark-faced friend passed from the study and out of the house, never to re-enter it.
Then, when they had gone, Mary, a pale, tragic figure in her bridal dress, flung herself into George’s ready arms, crying—
“You have saved me—saved me!” and she burst into tears of joy, the outpourings of an overburdened heart.
For the first time Camillo Morini guessed the truth, yet then and there, before Felice Solaro, whose statement had liberated both of them, George Macbean openly confessed his great passion for her, a declaration of purest and strongest affection, of which she, by her own action, had already acknowledged reciprocation.
And so the Minister, on recovering from his surprise, gladly gave the hand of his daughter to the gallant, upright man who had placed himself in such jeopardy in order to save her and to unmask the conspirators, while Felice Solaro was the first to offer the pair his hearty congratulations. Hand in hand they stood, content in each other’s love.
In order to preserve appearances, it was arranged that Mary should feign a sudden illness to necessitate the postponement of the wedding, and while there was great disappointment among the guests and the curious crowds of villagers, there was, in secret, a great rejoicing in Madame Morini’s little boudoir when the glad news was revealed to her.
The pealing bells were stopped. Mary had thrown off her wedding-gown merrily, and when she tossed her orange-blossoms into the grate of the boudoir, she said to George laughingly—
“When we marry privately in London next month, I shall require no white satin—a travelling gown will be sufficient, will it not?”
“Yes, dearest,” he said, kissing her fondly upon the lips, now that she was really his very own. “The dress does not matter when the union of our hearts is so firm and true. You know how fondly and passionately I love you, and how I have suffered in silence at the thought of your terrible sacrifice.”
“I know,” she answered softly, looking up into his eyes trustingly. “I know, George—only too well! Ah! you cannot think how happy I am, now that it is all past—and you are mine?” And then she raised her sweet face and kissed him of her own accord upon the cheek.
Chapter Forty One.
A Woman’s Freedom.
Within a month of the abandoned wedding at Orton, Mary Morini and George Macbean were married quietly at St. James’s Church, in Piccadilly, the Rev. Basil Sinclair assisting, and Billy Grenfell, as full of his bluff humour as ever, acting as best man, while among the various handsome presents the happy pair received was an acceptable cheque from Mr Morgan-Mason for ten thousand pounds—the sum he had offered to George for information as to the actual means by which his brother-in-law met with his death.
The millionaire was determined to place the assassins on their trial, and notwithstanding Morini’s efforts to preserve secrecy regarding the affair, he actually gave information to the Chief of Police in Mentone. By some secret means, Angelo Borselli obtained knowledge of this fact, and on the very morning of George’s wedding day he was found in a room in an obscure hotel in Brussels, quite dead, having committed suicide by swallowing some arsenical poison, probably the same as that used in the cognac which caused the unfortunate general’s tragic end.
Felice Solaro was soon gazetted major, and is now transferred to the gaiety of Naples. As for Dubard, he did not long enjoy his freedom, for he was arrested as a traitor by the French police while passing through Bordeaux, and is now spending the remainder of his days on the penal island of New Caledonia.
George Macbean and his charming wife still live in Rome, and all in the Eternal City know them well by sight. The Cavaliere Macbean has been promoted to a very high and responsible position in the Ministry of War, but last year Camillo Morini, owing to failing health, resigned office, greatly to the regret of his new sovereign, King Victor Emmanuel, and of the gallant Italian people at large.
But before resigning he endeavoured by every means in his power to atone for the peculations of his earlier career, and by selling his palace and other properties, he paid back the whole of the money he had appropriated.
San Donato, the old-world estate above Florence, is, however, still his, and there, enjoying the greatest fame perhaps of any living Italian, he is spending with his wife the evening of his days.
Orton Court is still rented by him, and each summer they go there with Mary and her husband. But the village is still mystified why Miss Mary did not marry the Frenchman, and whether, after all, there was not a scene on that memorable day when the wedding was so abruptly postponed.
But in her fine dark eyes they now see the light of perfect love and sweet contentment, and they know too well the sterling worth and kindly heart of the man who is her husband.
In Orton village in summer, however, perhaps the most popular and important personage of any is the little round-faced, chubby boy, who so often sits between the happy pair when on bright afternoons they drive out in the smart victoria.
Much as she prefers England, Madame Macbean is compelled, on account of her husband’s official position, to still move in Roman society, where, for her great personal beauty and the sweetness of her character, she is the most admired of women in the Quirinale set, that bright and brilliant circle of Italy’s bluest blood—“The World behind the Throne.”
|
Chapter 1
| |
Chapter 2
| |
Chapter 3
| |
Chapter 4
| |
Chapter 5
| |
Chapter 6
| |
Chapter 7
| |
Chapter 8
| |
Chapter 9
| |
Chapter 10
| |
Chapter 11
| |
Chapter 12
| |
Chapter 13
| |
Chapter 14
| |
Chapter 15
| |
Chapter 16
| |
Chapter 17
| |
Chapter 18
| |
Chapter 19
| |
Chapter 20
| |
Chapter 21
| |
Chapter 22
| |
Chapter 23
| |
Chapter 24
| |
Chapter 25
| |
Chapter 26
| |
Chapter 27
| |
Chapter 28
| |
Chapter 29
| |
Chapter 30
| |
Chapter 31
| |
Chapter 32
| |
Chapter 33
| |
Chapter 34
| |
Chapter 35
| |
Chapter 36
| |
Chapter 37
| |
Chapter 38
| |
Chapter 39
| |
Chapter 40
| |
Chapter 41
|