Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.The Villa San Donato.The sky was aflame in all the crimson glory of the Tuscan sunset.The Angelus of a sudden clashed forth from the high castellated tower of the village church away over the Arno, winding deep in its beautiful fertile valley, that veritable paradise of green vale and purple mountain, and was echoed by a dozen other bells clanging discordantly from the hillsides, while from afar came up the deep-toned note of the big bell in the campanile of brown old Florence.It was the hour of theventi-tre, and those patient toilers, thecontadini, in the vineyards, who had been busy since dawn plucking the rich red grapes that hung everywhere in such luscious profusion, crossed themselves with a murmured prayer to the Madonna, and prodded their ox-teams homeward with the last load for the presses. All day long “babbo,” with his wife and children of all ages, had worked on beneath that fiery sun, singing as they laboured; for the grape harvest was a rich one, the wine would be abundant, and they, sharing half the profits with the padrone in lieu of payment, would receive a good round sum.Like most of the great estates in Tuscany, that of San Donato, the property of His Excellency Camillo Morini, was held by the peasantry on what is known as themesseriasystem, by which the whole of the land was divided into a number of fields, orpoderi, half the produce of which was retained by themezzadro, or peasant who cultivated the soil, and the other half went to the landlord as rent. Thepoderivaried in size, but were usually about thirty acres in extent, each with itscontadino’shouse colour-washed in pale pink, and upon the wall, painted in distemper, a heraldic shield bearing the bull’s head erased argent, the arms of the proprietor.The estate of San Donato, with its huge old fourteenth-century villa—a great castellated place with high, square towers, that would in England be called a castle, on the crest of a hill—and itsfattoria, or residence of the bailiff, another great rambling place with its oil mills and wine-presses, in the valley below, was one of the largest in Tuscany.The villa, with its long façade of many windows, its flanking towers, its enormous salons of the cinquecento, its splendid frescoes, its antique marbles, its grey old terraces and broken statuary, was indeed in a delightful situation. Perched on the summit of a lofty and broken eminence, it looked down upon the vale of the Arno and commanded Florence with all its domes, towers, and palaces, the villas that encircle it and the roads that lead to it. The recesses, swells, and breaks of the hill on which it stood were covered with groves of pines, ilex, and cypress. Behind, deep below, lay quiet old Pistoja in the distance, and still farther off swelled the giant Apennines.From the villa ran a broad open road, straight to the ancient gate of the little walled village of San Donato itself—a remote, ancient place, almost the same to-day as when in the days of Dante it guarded the valley against the incursions of the Pisans. From its high brown walls, now crumbling to decay, the view was, like that from the villa of its lord, without rival in all Italy. Its tiny piazza was grass-grown, and outside the walls, in a shady cypress grove, stood a ruined calvary with some of Gerino’s wonderful frescoes.San Donato, though only seven miles from Florence as the crow flies, was an un-get-at-able place, inaccessible to the crowd of inquisitive English, and therefore unchanged and its people unspoilt. Indeed, in winter a week often went by without communication with the world below; for the post did not reach there, and the little place was self-supporting. The people, descendants of the men who had shot their arrows from those narrow slits in the walls, were proud that they had the great Minister of War for their lord, and that the estate was not like that adjoining, going to decay through the neglect and gambling propensities of its owner, who had not visited it for twenty years! On the contrary, San Donato, still almost feudal, was prosperous under a generous padrone, and the few weeks each year which the Minister and his family spent there was always a time of rejoicing with the whole countryside. Then thecontadinimade excuse for many festas, and there was much dancing, playing of mandolines, and chanting ofsiomelli. The padrone delighted to see his people happy, and the signorina was always so good to the poor and the afflicted.Out upon the great wide stone terrace that ran the whole length of the villa, where spread such a wonderful panorama of river and mountain, Mary was standing beneath an arbour of trailing vines; for even though theventi-trewas ringing, the sun’s rays were still too strong to stand in them bareheaded. She presented a slim, neat figure, delightfully cool in her plain white washing gown with a bow of pale blue tulle at the throat, yet, as her face was turned towards the far-distant heights of Vallombrosa, there was in her handsome countenance a look of deep anxiety.Jules Dubard, leaning against the grey old wall at her side, noticed it and wondered. He too was dressed all in white, in a suit of linen so necessary in the blazing Tuscan summer, and as he folded his arms he smiled within himself at the effect of his words upon her.“But you don’t really anticipate that my father’s enemies are plotting his downfall?” she asked seriously turning her great dark eyes upon him.“Unfortunately, I fear they are,” was his reply. “What I heard in Paris is sufficient to show that here, in Italy, you are on the eve of some grave political crisis.”“For what reason?” she inquired earnestly. “Tell me all you know, for your information may be of the greatest use to my father. I will write to him to-night,” she added, in a voice full of apprehension.“No. Do not write,” he urged. “You will see him in a week or ten days, and then you can tell him the rumours I have heard. It seems,” he went on, “that there is a group of Socialists fiercely antagonistic to the Government, and that they have formed a most ingenious conspiracy to secure its downfall. Other men, rivals of the present Ministry, are eager for office and for the pecuniary advantages to be thereby obtained.”“What is the character of the conspiracy?” she inquired seriously. “Perhaps my father can thwart it.”“It is to be hoped that he can, but I confess I doubt it very much,” was his slow answer. “Downfall seems imminent. Indeed, a friend of mine, whom I met the other day in Biffi’s café, in Milan, was discussing it openly. It seems that our French secret service has been at work on your Alpine frontier, and that the plans of the new fortress at Tresenta have been sold by one of the officers of the garrison. Out of this the Opposition intend to make capital, by charging your father with neglect, even connivance at the traitorous dealings with France, and thereby hounding him from office.”“But it is unjust!” cried the girl wildly. “It is disgraceful! If the spies of France have been successful, it is surely not my father’s fault, but the fault of the officer who prepared and sold them. What is his name?”“I hear it is Solaro.”“Solaro!” she gasped hoarsely. “Not Captain Felice Solaro, of the Alpine Regiment?”“Yes, signorina, that was the name.”She stood staring at him, utterly amazed and mystified. Felice Solaro!—a traitor!“But it is impossible!” she declared quickly. “There must surely be some mistake!”“I heard it on the very best authority,” was the young Frenchman’s calm answer. “A court-martial has, it seems, been held with closed doors, and as a result the man Solaro has been dismissed and sentenced to imprisonment for a term of fifteen years.”“Dismissed the army!” she exclaimed blankly. “Then the court-martial found him guilty?”“Certainly. But did you know the man?”She hesitated a moment, then faltered—“Yes, I knew him once. But what you tell me seems utterly impossible. He was the very last man to betray Italy.”“They say that a woman induced him to prepare the plans,” remarked the Frenchman. “But how far that is true I have no idea.”Mary’s face was paler than before. Her brows were contracted, and in her dark, luminous eyes was a look of quick determination.“Is my father aware of all this?” she demanded.“Undoubtedly. He, of course, must have signed the decree dismissing Solaro from the army. I believe the matter is being kept as quiet as possible, but unfortunately the Socialists have somehow obtained knowledge of the true facts, and will go to the country with the cry that Italy, under the present Cabinet, is in danger.” Then, after a slight pause, he went on, “I look upon your father as my friend, you know, signorina, therefore I think he ought to know the plot being formed against him. They intend to make certain distinct charges against him, of bribery, of receiving money from contractors who have supplied inferior goods, and of being directly responsible for the recent reverses in Abyssinia. If they do—” Pausing, he elevated his shoulders without concluding the sentence.“But it is impossible, Count Dubard, that the man you name could have sold our military secrets?”“You know him sufficiently well, then, to be aware of his loyalty?” sniffed her companion suspiciously.“I know that he would never be guilty of an act of treason,” she answered quickly. “Therefore if he really has been convicted of such an offence, he must be the victim himself of some conspiracy.”The count regarded her heated declaration as the involuntary demonstration of a bond of friendship, and looked into her eyes in undisguised wonder. She stood facing him, her white hand upon the broken marble of an ancient vase, yellow and worn smooth by time.“You appear to repose the utmost confidence in him,” he remarked, surprised. “Why?”“Because I am certain that he has fallen the victim of a plot,” she declared, her face hard set and desperate. “If those enemies of my father’s are endeavouring so cleverly to oust him from office, is it not quite feasible that they have laid the blame purposely upon Captain Solaro?”“Why purposely?”She paused, and again his eyes met hers.“Because they knew that if Captain Solaro were accused,” she said slowly, “my father, as Minister, would show him no clemency.”“Why?”“There is a reason,” she responded hoarsely, adding, “I know that he is innocent—hemustbe innocent.”“But he has been tried by a competent court-martial, and found guilty,” remarked her companion.“With closed doors?”“And is not that the usual procedure in cases of grave offence? It would never do for the public to learn that the loyalty of Italy’s officers had been found wanting. That would shake the confidence of the country.”“And yet my father’s enemies are preparing to strike a crushing blow at him by making capital out of it?” she exclaimed. “Ah yes. I see—I see it all!” she cried. “It is a vile, despicable conspiracy which has sent to prison in disgrace an innocent man—a second case of Dreyfus!”The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders but made no reply.“You said that a woman’s name had been mentioned in connection with the affair,” she went on. “Was her name Nodari—Filoména Nodari—and does she not live in Bologna?”Her companion’s lips pressed themselves together, but so slightly that she did not notice the almost imperceptible expression of annoyance upon his face.“I do not know,” he declared. “I merely heard that there was a woman in the case, and that she had given certain evidence before the military court that left no doubt of the guilt of the accused. But,” he added, half apologetically, “I had no idea, signorina, that Solaro was a friend of yours.”“Oh, he is not a friend, only an acquaintance,” she protested.“Then why are you so intensely interested in his welfare?” he inquired.“Because I have certain reasons. An injustice has been done, and I shall at once ask my father to have the most searching inquiry made. He will do so, if it is my wish,” she added confidently.“Then you intend to champion the cause of the man who is accused of being a traitor to Italy?” remarked the wily Parisian, regarding her furtively as he spoke. “I fear, signorina, if you adopt any such course you will only place in the hands of your father’s enemies a further weapon against him. No; if you desire to assist His Excellency at this very critical moment, you must refrain from taking any action which they could construe into your own desire, or your father’s intention, to liberate the man who is convicted of having sold his country to its enemy.”“But it is unjust! He is innocent.”“Be that how it may, your duty surely is to help your father, not to act in a manner which would convince the public that he had connived at the sale of the military secrets of Tresenta.”Her dark eyes fixed themselves upon the distant towers and cupolas of Florence, down where the grey mists were now rising. They were filled with tears, and her chest beneath her laces heaved slowly and then fell again.And the man lounging at her side with studied grace laughed within himself, triumphant at his own clever diplomacy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hear it is Solaro.”

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

“Yes, signorina, that was the name.”

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

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

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

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

“Certainly. But did you know the man?”

She hesitated a moment, then faltered—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why purposely?”

She paused, and again his eyes met hers.

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

“Why?”

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

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

“With closed doors?”

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

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

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders but made no reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But it is unjust! He is innocent.”

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

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

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

Chapter Fourteen.In the Silence of Night.Dinner at the Villa San Donato was always a stately meal, served in that huge, loftysala di pranzo, or dining-room, with its marble floor, its high prison-like windows closely barred with iron, its antique frescoed walls, and old low settees covered with dark green damask running right round the apartment.In that enormous echoing room nothing had been touched for two hundred years. The old oak furniture had been well-preserved, the great high-backed chairs, covered with leather and studded with big brass nails, the fine carved buffet, and the graven shield over the door bearing the arms of the princely house that had once owned the place, all spoke of a brilliant magnificence of days bygone when those huge halls had echoed to the tread of armed men, and the lord of San Donato entertained his retainers and bravoes with princely generosity. The villa was so huge that the guest easily lost himself in its ramifications, its long corridors and huge salons each leading from one to the other. Like all the fortified villas of the cinquecento, every window on the ground floor was closely barred, and this, combined with the bareness of the rooms, gave to them an aspect of austerity. Over the whole place was a comfortless air, like that of most Italian houses, save in Madame Morini’s rose boudoir, and the little sitting-room which Mary had arranged in English style, and called her own.In the great dining-room there was sitting accommodation for two hundred, and yet on that evening the party only numbered six: Her Excellency, Mary, Jules Dubard, an English schoolfellow of Mary’s named Violet Walters, the fair-haired daughter of an eminent KC, and two sisters, named Anna and Eva Fry, daughters of an English merchant at Genoa whom Her Excellency had invited up for the vintage.The voices of the little party echoed strangely in that enormous old apartment, and from time to time a peal of laughter came back from the corners of the place with weird and startling repetition. The party had that day made an excursion over to another estate which the Minister possessed above the Arno, at Empoli, where the vintage was in full swing. The trip had been delightful, and the peasantry had received them with that deep homage and generous hospitality which the Tuscancontadiniextend to their lord.All were in good spirits except Mary, who, in a gown of pale carnation pink, sat conversing mechanically in English with her friend Violet, a pretty girl, about a year her senior, but within herself reflecting deeply upon what the man sitting opposite her had told her when out upon the terrace an hour before.Her father was in peril; it was her duty to warn him. Felice Solaro had fallen a victim of some dastardly plot, but for what reason and how was an utter mystery.She longed to explain to her father all that the count had told her, but in reply to a question, her mother had said that she did not expect him to leave Rome for at least a fortnight. Therefore she remained thoughtful, apprehensive, and undecided how to act. At first she had contemplated explaining everything to her mother, but on reflection she saw that there were certain reasons why her anxiety should not be aroused. Her Excellency was in very delicate health, and while in London had consulted a physician, who had told her that she must have as little mental worry as possible. For that reason Mary resolved to hide the serious truth from her.Dubard, with his studied elegance of manner, was entertaining the ladies with droll stories, for he was something of a humourist, and essentially a ladies’ man. Once or twice as Mary’s eyes met his he saw in them an expression of deep anxiety, and of course knew well the reason.The Fry girls were particularly interested in the young Frenchman, of whom they had heard as a new star in the social firmament in Rome during the previous season, but, being provincials, they had not met him. Both were dark and fairly good-looking; Eva aged about twenty-one, and Anna two years her senior. Their father, Henry Fry, was an exporter of marble and of olive oil, who, like his father before him, carried on business in Genoa, and had amassed a considerable fortune; but Mrs Fry’s death three years previously had left the girls to shift for themselves in the social world, and their mother having long been an intimate friend of Her Excellency, the latter each year invited the girls up to San Donato as company for Mary.Dinner ended at last, and the little party passed through the three great salons lit by the thousand wax candles in their antique sconces, into the minor drawing-room beyond, which was always used of an evening because it was cosier and small enough to be carpeted.The Fry girls were clever mandolinists, and taking up their instruments at Madame Morini’s invitation, played and sang that sweet old Tuscan serenade—“Io ti amerò finchè le RondinelleAvranno fatto il nido dell’ amore;Io ti amero fin che nel Cielo stelleVi saran sempre a illuminarmi il cora.Io ti amerò,Io ti amerò,Fin che avrò vitaMio bel tesor!”As they sang, Dubard stood beside Mary and looked into her dark eyes for some responding glance.But there was none. She was not thinking of him, but of that unfortunate man convicted of treason, disgraced and languishing in gaol—and of Filoména Nodari, the woman who had foully betrayed him.“You are sad to-night,” he managed to whisper to her as they turned together from the singers.She nodded, but no response escaped her lips.Her feelings towards Jules Dubard were mixed ones. She found him a very pleasant and entertaining companion, always courteous, elegant of manner, and excessively polite—the kind of man who at once attracted a woman. And yet somehow, when she came to calmly analyse her regard for him, she found it to be based merely upon his attractive personality; or, in other words, it was little more than a mere flirtation, which may be forgiven of every woman who is courted and flattered as she was.True, he had, in a kind of joking manner, more than once declared his love for her. But she had always affected to treat his words as empty and meaningless, and to assume that they were good friends and nothing more. At heart, however, she knew that both her parents would be pleased to see her marry this man; for not only would she be the wife of a wealthy landowner, but would also obtain the ancient and honoured title of Comtesse Dubard.Sometimes, in the secrecy of her room, she sat and reflected upon the whole situation, but on each occasion she arrived at the same distinct and unalterable conclusion. She admired Jules; she was fond of his society, and he was, even though his Gallic elegance of manner was a trifle forced, nevertheless a perfect gentleman. But surely there was a great breach between admiration and actual affection.What he had told her out on the terrace in the sundown, however, showed plainly that he was really her father’s friend. And yet, strangely enough, he did not wish her to alarm her father unduly. Why? she wondered. If that grave peril actually existed he should surely be forewarned!“What I told you this evening has, I fear, upset you, signorina,” Dubard said in a low, sympathetic voice. “But do not be disquieted. I will assist your father in thwarting this conspiracy against him. Do not tell Her Excellency a word. It would be harmful for her, you know.”“I shall say nothing,” was her reply. “But,” she added, “I cannot help feeling anxious, especially as you suggest that I shall not write to my father and warn him.”“Oh, write if you wish,” he exclaimed quickly. “Only recollect all that I have told you is only hearsay. Therefore, I think it unwise to arouse your father’s apprehensions if the rumour of the conspiracy is baseless. No?” he went on. “Remain patient, and leave everything to me.”She sighed, without replying; then, in order to reassure her, he whispered, at the same time looking into her eyes intensely—“You know, Mary, that I will do my very best—for your sake. You know me sufficiently well for that.”He would have continued his protestations of affection had not the singers at that moment ceased, and they were both compelled to rejoin the little group, much to Mary’s relief, for at that moment she had no thought beyond her father’s peril. She did not exactly mistrust the count, yet some strange intuition told her that his solicitude for her father’s safety was feigned. What made her think so she knew not, but she experienced that evening a strange, unaccountable presage of evil.He asked her to sing, and then, being pressed by the others, she responded, chanting one of those oldstornelliof the countryfolk which she was so fond of collecting and writing in a book, the weird love-chants that have been handed down from the Middle Ages. It was one she had taken down from the lips of acontadinoat Castellina a few days previously—“Giovanottino dal cappel di paglia,Non ti voglio amar più, non n’ho più voglia...Voglio piuttosto vincer la battaglia!”And while she sang, Violet Walters, standing with Dubard, looked at him with an expression which told him that he had created a favourable impression upon her. Thus the evening passed quietly, until the bell over the private chapel of the castle tolled eleven, and the guests rose and parted to their rooms, being conducted through the long ghostly corridors by the domestics with candles.Mary allowed her Italian maid Teresa to brush her long brown tresses before the mirror, as was her habit, but the faithful servant remarked in surprise upon the signorina’s preoccupied look.“I’m very tired, that’s all,” Mary replied, and as quickly as possible dismissed the girl and locked her door.Her room she had furnished in English style with furniture she had chosen in London. It was a delightful little place, bright with clean chintzes and a carpet of pastel blue. Upon the toilet-table was a handsome set of silver-mounted bottles and brushes, a birthday gift from her devoted father, and around the bed, suspended like a canopy from the ceiling, were the long white mosquito curtains.For a long time she sat before the glass in her pale blue dressing-gown, her pointed chin sunk upon her breast in thought. Ruin was before her father—and if so, it meant ruin for them all!Should she disregard the count’s suggestion and write to him, urging him to come from Rome and see her; or if not, to allow her to travel alone to Rome? Should she write in secret?How long she remained pondering, she had no idea. Twice the clock struck solemnly over the deep dark valley that spread beneath her window, until presently, with her mind made up, she rose and crossed to her little writing-table on the opposite side of the apartment, but was dismayed to find the stationery rack empty of notepaper.If she wrote, it was necessary to do so at once in order to give the letter to Teresa when she came with the coffee in the morning, for the young peasant who took the postbag each day left at eight in the morning, so as to catch the midday mail from Pistoja. There was paper in the library at the farther end of the mansion, therefore she resolved to go and obtain some.Wrapping a white shawl about her shoulders, she took her candle, and opening her door noiselessly, crept down the long marble corridor past her mother’s door, and then, turning at right angles, proceeded to the door at the end which gave entrance to the splendid book-lined room full of priceless editions.As she crept along in her little felt-soled slippers she suddenly halted, fancying that she heard an unusual noise. The peasantry entertained an absurd belief that at night supernatural noises were heard in the place, but of course she did not believe in them. In fact, she believed that the story had been invented by the agent, and circulated among the superstitious folk in order to give the house better protection against thieves.She listened intently, her ears strained to catch every sound.Yes, someone was moving in the library!Her first thought was of burglars, but holding her breath and determined to first make certain before raising the alarm, she advanced cautiously to the door, placed her candle upon the floor, and peered through the keyhole.She was not mistaken.A light shone within. The great green door of her father’s safe stood open before her, revealing the nest of iron drawers within, while someone was moving at the writing-table a little distance away, beyond her range of vision.Her heart beat quickly as her eye was glued to the keyhole.The thieves, whoever they were, had opened the safe with a key and were calmly rifling it!She heard a noise as of crisp papers being turned over slowly, and then a few seconds later a dark figure crossed to the safe and took a further packet from one of the drawers.As the man turned towards her his face became revealed in the dim light. Sight of it staggered her.The man who had opened the safe, and who was methodically examining her father’s confidential papers in secret, was none other than Jules Dubard!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Io ti amerò finchè le RondinelleAvranno fatto il nido dell’ amore;Io ti amero fin che nel Cielo stelleVi saran sempre a illuminarmi il cora.Io ti amerò,Io ti amerò,Fin che avrò vitaMio bel tesor!”

“Io ti amerò finchè le RondinelleAvranno fatto il nido dell’ amore;Io ti amero fin che nel Cielo stelleVi saran sempre a illuminarmi il cora.Io ti amerò,Io ti amerò,Fin che avrò vitaMio bel tesor!”

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

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

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

She nodded, but no response escaped her lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, someone was moving in the library!

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

She was not mistaken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Fifteen.The Peril of a Nation.The revelation of the truth that Jules Dubard was making a methodical examination of her father’s private papers held Mary spellbound.From where she bent her eye at the big old-fashioned keyhole, she saw that the ponderous steel door had been opened by a key, for it was still in the shining lock. Within that safe her father kept a number of important state papers relating to the army, and quantities of correspondence had, from time to time, been brought up from Rome by official secretaries and he had placed them there for safety.Once, while she had been helping him to arrange a quantity of technical documents and tie them in bundles with pink tape, he had remarked—“These are safer here than in Rome, my dear. There are thousands who long to get sight of them, but they would never think of looking here.”But there had been a still further curious incident, one which she recalled vividly at that moment as she watched the man intently examining the documents by the light of his candle. It had happened back in April, when some matters connected with the estate called His Excellency from Rome, and he had brought Mary with him up to San Donato, where they had remained only two days. The country was delightful in the bright springtime, and Mary had desired to remain longer, but it was impossible, for her father’s official duties took him back to the Eternal City—and besides, to live in the country in spring is not considered fashionable.On the second night, while they were at the villa, he being alone, she sat with him in the library after dinner watching him rearrange a series of papers in the safe. It was eleven o’clock when he concluded and locked the great green door, then, carrying the key in his hand, he crossed to where she sat, and said in a calm, earnest voice—“Mary, I know that you will keep a secret if I reveal one to you, won’t you?”“Most certainly, father,” was her answer, not without some surprise.“Then put on your cloak and a shawl around your head, my dear. I want to take you out.”Her curiosity was increased, for although it was moonlight it was late to walk in the country. Nevertheless she obeyed, and together they passed down the steep, narrow bypath through the dark pine woods, deeper and deeper, until before them in the silence the Arno spread shimmering in the moonbeams.At the river’s edge His Excellency suddenly halted, saying—“Mary, I wish you to bear witness to my action, so that if you are ever questioned you may be able to tell the truth. Recollect that to-night is the ninth of April—is it not?”“Yes; why?” she inquired, more puzzled than ever.“Because I have decided that that safe in the library shall never again be reopened while I live. See! Here is the key!” and he gave it into her hand, urging her to examine it, which she did under the bright moonbeams.Then he took it from her hand, and with a sudden movement tossed it as far as he could towards the centre of the deep stream, where it fell with a splash.He sighed, as though a great weight had been lifted from his mind, and as they turned to re-ascend the hill he said with a grim laugh—“If anyone wishes to open it now, he’ll have a good deal of difficulty, I think.”That was all. She had never questioned him further. She had been witness of the wilful concealment of the key, but the reason she knew not. There were state secrets, she supposed, and she always regarded them as mysterious and inexplicable.Yet the safe had been reopened—if not by the actual key flung into the river, then by a copy.But what motive had Dubard in coming there on a visit during the Minister’s absence, and making careful examination of the documents which had been so zealously hidden?Out on the terrace that evening Dubard had, by giving her that warning, shown himself to be her father’s friend. Yet surely this secret prying was no act of friendship?And this was the man who had courted and flattered her—the man whom more than once she had believed that she could love!Her heart beat quickly, for she scarce dared to breathe, lest she should betray her presence. The silence was unbroken save that within the room was the rustle of papers as the man carefully glanced over folio after folio.The writing-table stood a little to the left, beyond the range of her sight, therefore he was for a long time invisible to her. Yet in the dead silence she could distinctly hear the scratching of a pen, as though he were making some extracts or memoranda. He had evidently lit the lamp upon the table, for his candle still stood on the floor before the open safe.As she listened she heard him laugh lightly to himself, a harsh, low, mocking laugh, which echoed through the big old room, and then he rose and carried back the bundle of documents carefully retied, and placed them in their drawer, afterwards taking out another, and looking at the docket upon it.From the latter he saw it was of no interest to him, therefore he tossed it back, as he did a second and a third. He seemed to be searching for something he could not find, and his failure caused him considerable chagrin.His actions held her utterly dumbfounded. Although she had been attracted by his personality and his courtesy, she had, with that curious intuition which women possess, regarded him with some vague distrust. What she now discovered made it plain that she had not been mistaken. Her father had welcomed him to his house, had entertained him, and had regarded him as a man of sterling worth, notwithstanding his Parisian elegance of manner and foppishness of attire.In their family circle her father had, indeed, more than once expressed admiration of the count’s high qualities, which showed how completely the man had insinuated himself into the Minister’s confidence. But the truth was now revealed, and he was unmasked.Her natural indignation that he, a comparative stranger, should seek to inquire into her father’s most carefully guarded private affairs, prompted her to burst in upon him and demand the reason of his duplicity; but as she watched, she recognised that the most judicious course would be to remain silent, and to describe to her father all that she had witnessed.Therefore she remained motionless with strained eyes, set teeth, and quickly beating heart, gazing upon the man who had accepted her mother’s hospitality only to make an examination of her father’s secrets.An hour passed. The deep-toned clock struck the hour of four, followed by the far-distant bell of Florence. She was cramped, chilled, and in darkness, for she had extinguished her light in order that he should not be attracted by it shining beneath the door.Presently, however, she saw from his dark, heavy countenance, lit by the uncertain light of the candle, that he was deeply disappointed. He had searched, but had evidently failed to find what he expected. Therefore he commenced busily to rearrange the packets in the steel drawers, just as he had found them, preparatory to relocking the safe and retiring to his room.She recognised that he had concluded his search—for that night, at any rate—for there still remained four or five drawers full of papers unexamined. Servants rise early in Italy, and he feared, perhaps, that he might be discovered. The remaining papers he reserved for the following night.She watched him close the safe door and place the key in his pocket, then she rose, caught up her candle, and sped along the corridors back to her own room.She relit her candle, and as she did so caught the reflection of her own face in the long mirror, and was startled to see how ghastly pale it was.The discovery amazed her. She realised that the man who courted her so assiduously and who flattered her so constantly was in search of something which he believed to be in her father’s possession. How he had recovered that key which had been thrown deep into the Arno at that lonely reach of the river beneath the tall cypresses, was an utter mystery.Should she go to her mother and tell her of all she had seen? Her first impulse was to reveal everything, and seek her mother’s counsel; yet on reflection she deemed it wiser to tell her father all she knew. The natural impulse of a daughter was, of course, to take her mother into her confidence, but one fact alone prevented this—only a few days previously her mother had been so loud in praise of the count, in order, it seemed, to recommend him to her daughter. Madame Morini was, with her husband, equally eager to see a formal engagement between the pair, and was surprised and disappointed to notice the cold, imperturbable manner in which Mary always treated him. Mary had realised this long ago, and for that reason now hesitated to tell her mother the truth.Next morning, while she was puzzling over what excuse she could make to go to Rome, her mother came to her with an open letter in her hand, saying that her father had been called to Naples to be present at an official reception of King Humbert by that city, and would not return to the Ministry for three days. This news caused Mary’s heart to sink within her, for she saw the uselessness of going to Rome until he returned.That day she avoided Dubard, making an excuse that she had a headache, and spending most of the time alone in her little boudoir. The Frenchman took the other girls for an excursion through the woods, and during his absence she entered the great old library and carefully examined the lock of the safe.It showed no sign of having been tampered with, having evidently been opened with its proper key—or an exact copy of it. The waste-paper basket was empty, the maid having taken it away that morning; but the blotting-pad caught her eye, and she held it before the long old empire mirror and tried to read the impressions of the words he had copied. But in vain. One or two disjointed words in French she made out, but they told her absolutely nothing. He had evidently made memoranda of the documents in French, or else the documents themselves had been written in French.She knew, by his actions on the previous night, that he intended to return and conclude his investigations, and a sudden idea occurred to her to thwart his plans. The real object of his search he had apparently not discovered, therefore it was her duty to prevent him from obtaining it, and yet at the same time remain secret and appear to possess no knowledge of his attempt. She reflected for some time how best to accomplish this, when at last a mode essentially feminine suggested itself—one which she hoped would be effective.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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

“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.

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