Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty One.The Ear of the Minister.After luncheon Camillo Morini left his wife, Mary, and the three young English girls, Anna and Eva Fry and Violet Walters, and retired as usual to his study. He had been silent and thoughtful at table, and his wife, ignorant of the crisis, attributed it to worry over state affairs, as was so often the case. A Minister’s life is never a happy one, and always full of grave responsibilities.Her Excellency had seen her husband, to whom she was so devoted, age before his time, and in the years gone by she had greatly assisted him by her wise counsels and womanly help.He looked at her in silence from where he sat at the head of the table, and sighed bitterly to himself. If he told her all, the shock would be too great for her. It might, indeed, have serious consequences. Therefore he was compelled to keep his secret from everyone save Mary.The long green sun-shutters were closed, and the great, high, old frescoed room in which he sat alone was in half-darkness. He had told the liveried servant Francesco that he did not wish to be disturbed, and on entering had locked the door behind him. It was a dull, depressing room at any time, for the ponderous cases of old vellum-bound books breathed an atmosphere of a glorious but forgotten past. Gerino’s frescoed angels looked down upon him from the ceiling, and the ponderous beams still bore traces of bright colouring and faded gilt. Closed against the stifling heat outside, only a few rays of light struck across the big writing-table where His Excellency was sitting dejectedly, his head buried in his hands. From without came the monotonous hum of the insects and the harsh chirp of the cicale, the only live things astir under the burning Tuscan sun.His wife and the girls had gone to their rooms for the siesta, previous to driving over to Montelupo to visit the Marchioness Altieri, and he was alone with his bitter grief and blank despair.Little sleep had come to his eyes for the past week. Last night he had spent the hours under the steely sky, first down in the valley and then away over the mountains until he reached a point high up on a barren summit, where he sank down upon a heap of stones and watched the breaking of day over the Apennines. His thoughts were always of what Vito had revealed to him, and of his failure.His return to the house had passed unnoticed, and after a wash he had taken his coffee and entered that room with a firm and desperate resolve. The whole morning he had occupied in placing his papers in order, arranging them carefully, tying them in bundles, and scribbling certain instructions upon each, with the names of the secretaries or other officials to whom they were to be handed.He had worked on in grim silence, sighing sometimes and laughing bitterly to himself at others. More than once he murmured Mary’s name or that of his beloved wife, while nearly the whole time his kind eyes were filled with tears.At luncheon he had motioned Francesco to give him a liqueur-glass of cognac with his coffee, a most unusual proceeding, for he was a very abstemious man, and now he sat motionless, his fingers in his grey hair, staring thoughtfully at the blotting-pad before him.For fully half an hour he remained in that position, often murmuring to himself. He was reflecting upon all the bitterness of the past. He, the man whose name was one to conjure with in Italy, was at that moment without one single friend to give him help or sympathy.Suddenly the silence of the room was broken by the whir-r of the telephone bell—the private line that connected him direct with his secretary at the Ministry at Rome three hundred miles away.Quickly he rose, walked to the corner where the instrument was placed, and responded.“The Onorevole Ricci desires to speak with your Excellency in private,” announced the voice which he recognised as one of his private secretaries.“Va bene!” was the Minister’s anxious response.Vito had, before they parted at the club, arranged to telephone to him in case of necessity.“Are you there?” inquired the voice of the deputy for Asti.“Yes. What is it?” asked the Minister, as through the instrument he distinctly heard the snap of the padded door of the telephone cabinet in the Ministry, which was now closed against listeners.“It is as I thought,” Ricci said in a slow, distinct voice. “I have been active ever since my return, and it is just as I believed. Last night at the club, Lapi, Marchesi, Prosperi, and Montebruno were playing bridge together, and when they had finished at half-past two I joined them, and from their conversation learned that Montebruno is to bring forward the question of the French frontier in the Camera. This morning I saw Borselli and that young Frenchman Dubard walking together in the Corso. They were talking earnestly, and it seemed as though the count was telling Angelo something which surprised him. I stopped and spoke to them, but they appeared to betray some uneasiness at meeting me. What do you know about the Frenchman?”“Nothing to his detriment,” was the Minister’s reply. “It is at present a secret, but he has asked me for Mary’s hand.”“Then don’t give it.”“Why?”“Because I don’t like his intimate friendship with Borselli.”“It was I who first introduced them. They met at dinner at my table,” Morini said, surprised at his spy’s warning. “What do you suspect?”“I have no suspicions,” was the reply. “Only if he is an intimate friend of yours, as he seems to be if he is to marry the signorina, it is strange that he should at this moment be so constantly in Borselli’s company. I hear that nowadays the pair are inseparable. They walked to the Ministry, and were closeted together for over an hour. This has struck me as very curious, especially as I have just heard from a secret socialistic source that the question is to be asked by Montebruno in the Camera at five o’clock this afternoon.”“This afternoon?” gasped His Excellency, his countenance in an instant white to the lips. “Then they really mean to ask the question?”“Yes. I understand that the Opposition have made a sudden resolve, and that they intend to strike the blow against the Government immediately. To-morrow, unfortunately, all Italy will be aflame. I only regret that I am powerless to prevent it. I miscalculated my influence—I admit it.”“Then I must face the worst, Vito!” remarked the unhappy man in a low, desperate voice, starting at his own whispered words as they seemed to ring through the lofty, old-world room.“The instant I heard their intentions I made investigations, and found that nearly every Socialist deputy is in Rome ready to shriek that the safety of the kingdom is at stake. Our friend Borselli has indeed laid his plans very cleverly. But what puzzles me most is the reason Dubard is associating himself so closely with your enemy if he intends to marry your daughter! He surely cannot anticipate becoming your son-in-law and at the same time conspire to cause your downfall! To me it is a mystery, and that is why I urge you to be wary. That man has some hidden motive—depend upon it.”Morini glanced mechanically across at that big green-painted steel door of the safe, and recollected Mary’s curious story of what she had witnessed.“But he is very fond of Mary, and as I have given my consent to their marriage and my daughter has accepted him, he can surely have no motive in acting contrary to my interests.”“He is your enemy, I repeat,” declared Vito Ricci. “I have made inquiries, and the results all point to one conclusion, namely, that he is acting with Angelo; and, moreover, I have been told on the best authority that certain of the charges to be made against you are based upon information supplied by him.”“I can’t believe it.”“Be patient, and you will soon see whether the facts I have gathered are true. The question is to be put at five o’clock. I will telephone to you the result as soon as it occurs. I am going down to the Chamber at once, and will do my very utmost; but, as you can see, against such overwhelming opposition I am utterly powerless. If we could prevent Montebruno from putting the fatal question we might gain time and perhaps succeed, but how can we prevent Borselli carrying out his ingenious conspiracy when he is assisted in it by a hundred hungry office-seekers and adventurers of the Socialist party?”“Try! Try!” urged Camillo in a wild, desperate voice. “Try, Vito—for the sake of my poor wife and daughter.”“Remain firm,” came back the voice of the deputy. “Be patient, and watch the result of the attempt to wreck the Government.”“You are hopeless. I recognise it in your voice!” wailed the desperate man. “I know too well that all the blame and opprobrium must fall upon me. They intend, as you have already told me, that I shall be the scapegoat, and that Angelo shall take my portfolio.”The deputy returned no answer. What, indeed, could he say? His Excellency, who was a shrewd, far-seeing man, spoke the truth.“Ah, I know!” cried the Minister. “The plot is complete. For me, the future is hopeless. Yet I am more than mystified at what you tell me regarding Dubard. Try and discover his motive. Do not fail me in this, Vito, I beg of you. My poor daughter’s future depends on that.”“Trust me, my dear friend,” was the response. “Spinola is awaiting me outside, and we are going down to Montecitorio together. Have courage, and after five o’clock I will ring you up again. Addio!”And a moment later the tiny bell rang, which showed that the communication had been cut off.Then Camillo Morini, after glancing at his watch and finding that it was already three o’clock, stood immovable, his dark eyes staring across the silent room like a man in a dream.“Courage! Courage!” he repeated to himself hoarsely, with a bitter laugh. “Courage—and for a man who has no to-morrow!”In two short hours that voice from the Eternal City would, he knew, sound his doom.“I am ready?” he laughed to himself. “I am quite ready. They think to place all the blame upon me, to hound me down and charge me with having sold Italy into the hands of her enemies?” And from his vest-pocket he took tenderly a tiny glass tube containing three small pink tabloids, and held it in the ray of light to satisfy himself that they were still there under the plug of cotton wool.Then, as he replaced the tube in his pocket and slowly paced the room, his thoughts wandered to what Ricci had said regarding the man whom he had given leave to marry his daughter Mary.“He has suspicions—but of what?” he asked, speaking to himself in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “That he should be friendly with the man who has so suddenly turned my enemy is certainly curious. But he surely cannot be seeking my ruin if he is to marry dear Mary?”His eye caught the shining brass knobs of the safe door, and he halted before it. If Dubard had really examined those papers he might be aware of the truth! The very thought caused him to hold his breath. But next instant, when he reflected upon the morrow, his countenance relaxed into a bitter smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then don’t give it.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t believe it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twenty Two.Concerns a Man’s Duty.The man whose brilliant career had ended, longed to open the safe and to see whether certain papers it contained had really been disturbed. But even if he possessed the key which he had flung into the Arno on that memorable night, it could not be opened on account of the piece of wire which prevented the lever from working. The truth was therefore withheld from him.Sometimes he regarded Mary’s story as ridiculous, while at others he wondered whether Dubard had really opened the safe in order to investigate. He had been inclined to think that Mary, watching through the keyhole as she had done, had not been able to see distinctly, and that in her limited range of vision had imagined that the safe was being tampered with. Ricci’s words on the telephone were, however, ominous. Apparently Dubard was in some mysterious way taking part in that vile and despicable plot which sought to brand Mary as a traitress equally with himself.He turned from the safe and again flung himself into his writing-chair, where he remained a long time with his arms folded, staring straight in front of him.At last he stirred himself, reached down a sheet of notepaper, and commenced to write rapidly a letter commencing, “My dear wife.” Briefly and to the point, he explained that he had fallen the victim of circumstances, although he had done his best for his king and country, and prayed for her forgiveness.The next letter he wrote was upon the big official paper headed “Ministro della Guerra: Divisione prima,” and with tears in his eyes and hand trembling with emotion he penned his resignation to his sovereign. He sought to make neither explanation nor excuse.“I have been your Majesty’s obedient and trusted servant and the servant of the Italian nation for twenty-one years,” he wrote, “and during my term of office as Minister of War my endeavour has been to improve the condition of the army and place it upon a level with those of other nations. Your Majesty has been pleased to signify your gracious pleasure at my efforts, and that, in itself, has been for me my highest reward. Circumstances which I could not foresee have, however, so conspired against me and mine that I am unable to remain longer in office, and therefore beg of your Majesty to relieve me of the portfolio I have so long held. I have enjoyed your Majesty’s marks of favour through many years, and I only beg most humbly to express a fervent hope that justice may be done to me, for, if so, it will be proved that I have never abused either my sovereign’s confidence nor disgraced the honour of the Italian people. I pen this resignation with deep and heartfelt regret—the regret of a man whose life has been for his country, and who is taking leave of an office he was proud to hold, and of a high and gratifying position in his sovereign’s gracious esteem.”He read and re-read the words he had penned with such difficulty. Such was the ignominious end of his brilliant ministerial career! The resignation would go direct into the hands of His Majesty, yet before it could reach the Quirinale he would have escaped his enemies.The third note he wrote was to Mary, a long and tender letter, in which he sought her forgiveness and declared himself innocent of the grave offences with which his enemies were charging him.“I admit that I have had faults, that I have misappropriated the public money under dire necessity, in order to sustain my position as Minister. Yet it is an open secret that every member of the Cabinet has done the same. I am no better and no worse than the others. But as regards the sale of our military secrets to France, I am as innocent as I believe you to be. They may attack you, but do not heed their charges. Marry, be happy, and when you recollect your father, remember him only as one who has been more sinned against than sinning; one who has been the victim of a foul conspiracy, ruined and broken by the false and exaggerated charges of adventurers, but also one who, having given his life for his king and his country, has also forgiven his enemies. My estates will be sold—confiscated, probably—and you and your mother will be comparatively poor. Yet you will, at least, have your husband Jules to guard and protect you even though your father has left you. I need not speak of my regrets—for they are but vain ones. My reputation has been undermined, and I have fallen. I must face the inevitable, and do so with courage, and in the knowledge that you, Mary, my daughter, will forgive me. There are charges—base, false charges—which I cannot refute. Why should I give my enemies satisfaction by facing them? I cannot hope for justice either at their hands in a court of law or of the people themselves, on account of the widespread intrigue to secure my downfall. It is therefore best to turn my back upon them in contempt, and bid you, my beloved child, farewell.”And as his thin, unsteady hand penned those final words in Italian, the hot tears dropped, blurring the writing and blistering the paper—the tears of a man bidding adieu to the one he most cherished—nay, to life.Having folded the paper and addressed the envelope with the simple words, “To my daughter Mary,” he took from his finger a curious old Etruscan ring he wore, an ornament that had been found years ago during the excavations of the amphitheatre at Fiesole, and imprinting a kiss upon it, enclosed it in the envelope for her.Then he glanced anxiously at his watch. Soon the dread news would be spoken into his ear. He sighed again, his face white and hard set, his pale lips trembling.He leaned back in his padded chair, and all the past came before him in rapid review. Now he saw clearly how Angelo Borselli had, through all those years, been his cringing underling and for what object. The cunning Under-Secretary had squeezed secret commissions out of everyone for their mutual pecuniary benefit, yet at the same time he was always careful to incriminate the man whose position he was so cleverly scheming to occupy.Mary had never liked him. A dozen times had she openly expressed her suspicion and distrust. But he had been blind—blind to everything. He was a man with, few vices himself, and never recognised them in others. Had his wife enjoyed good health she would nowadays have been his helpmate. But, unfortunately, owing to a carriage accident at Vichy five years before, her nerves were unstrung, and she was nearly always under medical treatment.But there were mysteries connected with the curious conspiracy that had arisen against him—mysteries which he could not solve.Had he acted rightly in suggesting to Mary that she should marry Jules Dubard? That point sorely troubled him. Ricci’s words over the telephone caused him to reflect deeply. His devotion to his daughter was complete, and he had suggested marriage with that man because he was an honourable gentleman of means, and had, during their acquaintance, rendered him certain valuable services in Paris. He looked upon Dubard as a friend of the family, and therefore had been much gratified when he had asked for Mary’s hand. Now, however, in those moments of despair as he reviewed the past, he recollected his daughter’s calm dignity when he had approached the subject, and how she had accepted the man with an inert disregard, as though she had only done so to obey his wish.And this man was in active association with his bitterest enemy!He remembered how at Orton, when the pair had met beneath his roof, they had betrayed no desire for each other’s company. Indeed, Borselli had dropped a plain hint that Dubard’s presence was unwelcome. And yet at the moment of the crisis they had become warm friends!Was it possible that the man who only a few days before had asked for Mary as his wife could actually be plotting against him in secret? The idea seemed too absurd, and he dismissed it. Dubard had already shown himself as his friend, and with that open generosity that had caused his downfall, he declined to prejudge him until he received absolute proof. He was shrewd and far-seeing concerning affairs of state, but to his own interests he was often utterly indifferent.He rose again, and for half an hour he paced up and down the marble floor of the long darkened room. The carriage-bells sounded outside, and as the noise of wheels died away he knew that his wife and the girls had gone out visiting.“Mary! Mary!” he cried aloud to himself. “Have I done right? If not, forgive me!”Of a sudden he thought of what Vito had told him in the club on the previous day regarding the startling allegation that his daughter had furnished information to the man now degraded and imprisoned as a traitor. Why had she begged for his release? That very fact in itself went far to prove that the allegation had some foundation in fact. He saw how his enemies, not content with attacking him, intended to denounce her as a traitress.She had declared that Felice Solaro was innocent. Yet if his last decree as Minister of War was one of clemency, releasing the accused man, his action would surely be misconstrued into one of connivance at the betrayal of the secrets of that high-up Alpine fortress.Was Solaro really guilty after all? At times he was convinced of it, because the proofs had been so plain, and the evidence of that young woman Nodari had been borne out by witnesses. Sometimes, however, he doubted. And if there was doubt, should not the accused be given the benefit of it? Ought not his last act to be one of fearless clemency?Slowly he walked to the window and then back again.“Yes. He shall have the benefit of the doubt,” he murmured, recollecting how the man had defiantly broken his sword before him. “It shall not be said that Camillo Morini did an injustice even to shield himself. My enemies will regard my action as proof of my guilt, and they are welcome to do so,” he added in a blank, hoarse voice. “My last action shall at least be one of justice.”And reseating himself at his table, he took out a big sheet of official paper, upon which he wrote—“It is hereby ordered that Felice Solaro, ex-captain of the 6th Alpine Regiment, convicted of treason, degraded, dismissed from the army of Italy, and imprisoned at the military prison of Turin, shall be immediately released and reinstated in his former rank, with pay to date from his arrest, as he is found not guilty of the false charges brought against him.“The governor of the military prison at Turin and General Arturo Valentini commanding the forces on the Alpine frontier are ordered to execute this decree given under my hand this first day of October in the year one thousand nine hundred and one.”Then, beneath, he signed that name that was magical with everything concerning the defences of Italy: “Camillo Morini, Il Ministro della Guerra,” after which he placed the document in an envelope and directed it to the prison governor.He drew a deep breath. At risk of being branded as one who sold Italy’s secrets to the French War Office, he had extended to the accused man a clemency which he might not deserve. Nevertheless, he felt convinced that he had acted with justice, and hoped that after all his enemies would not denounce Mary as Solaro’s accomplice.The allegation was, to him, a mystery. It was true that she had met the good-looking young captain in society, for he recollected perfectly well how, about eighteen months before, at a ball given by the Princess Capellari in Rome, he had noticed them dancing together. But Mary, being a great favourite, was much sought after by her male acquaintances, and he had never regarded the young Alpine captain as anything more than her mere acquaintance.He, however, could not disguise from himself the fact that she had had access to those carefully guarded papers which constituted the complete scheme by which the millions of Italy’s armed men were to be mobilised in case of war. In order to preserve greater secrecy, he had employed her in his study in the palace in Rome to copy certain portions of the secret scheme relative to the army of the north—portions which it was necessary to place in the hands of the general commanding in case of necessity. He preferred her assistance in this rather than to employ one of the secretaries, for his confidence in her was complete. It was therefore amazing that this should actually be known to those who were seeking his ruin. They charged her with gaining knowledge of the whole scheme—which, indeed, she might easily have done—and with having afterwards handed a copy of it to Felice Solaro.Such an imputation upon his daughter’s honour was infamous. That was Italy’s reward for all he had done for her!He glanced at his watch again, and saw that it was already five o’clock, the fatal hour when that thin-faced adventurer, Paolo Montebruno—an advocate, of course, as well as a Socialist deputy—was to rise and launch his bombshell into the Chamber!He held his breath, and as he sat staring before him fixedly in desperation and despair, he pictured to himself the scene at Montecitorio at that moment. He knew well that huge, semicircular Camera, and he had often sat listening to Montebruno shrieking in that quick, impetuous, high-pitched voice which inflamed the members of his wild-haired party. Yes! he knew well what hard invectives he would use when, as the mouthpiece of Angelo Borselli, he poured forth his terrible charges against the Minister of War.In that silent room, now darker as the sun declined, the man whose doom was sealed conjured up to himself the staggering sensation which would be caused by those allegations that he, the trusted adviser of his sovereign, had foully betrayed his country. Already he was speaking, without doubt, and already the wires were flashing the astounding charges to every corner of Italy. In a few brief hours those irresponsible journals inspired and subsidised by Borselli would be full of the sensation, screaming that Italy had been betrayed, and demanding a prosecution.He knew, from what Ricci had told him, that the charges could not fail to set all Italy aflame. The plot against him had been too cleverly prepared. The hour had passed. The Camera were already staggered at the magnitude and seriousness of the charges. He was already hounded down as a thief and a traitor.His nervous hand went to his vest-pocket, and drawing forth the small glass tube, he gazed upon it with a bitter smile of satisfaction.Of a sudden the telephone bell rang sharply behind him, causing him to start. The voice from across those high misty mountains would speak his doom.For a few moments the despairing man sat motionless, bent forward upon the table staring at the tube, then rising slowly, he staggered across to the instrument, took the receiver in his trembling fingers, and mechanically placed it to his ear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slowly he walked to the window and then back again.

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

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

“It is hereby ordered that Felice Solaro, ex-captain of the 6th Alpine Regiment, convicted of treason, degraded, dismissed from the army of Italy, and imprisoned at the military prison of Turin, shall be immediately released and reinstated in his former rank, with pay to date from his arrest, as he is found not guilty of the false charges brought against him.“The governor of the military prison at Turin and General Arturo Valentini commanding the forces on the Alpine frontier are ordered to execute this decree given under my hand this first day of October in the year one thousand nine hundred and one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twenty Three.The Plot.On that same hot afternoon, while His Excellency was pacing the library in the high-up old villa in the Apennines, Dubard alighted from a cab in the Via Salaria, in Rome, and entered a fine modern mansion, the home of Angelo Borselli, Under-Secretary for War. He was conducted to a small sitting-room, where, in the dim light of the closed sun-shutters, the arch-schemer was taking his siesta in a long wicker lounge-chair, half dozing, and yet revolving within his brain every detail of his ingenious plan to oust the Minister from office and to replace him.“Why, my dear Jules!” he cried in surprise as the young Frenchman entered. “I thought you had gone up to San Donato in order to be near your charmer when the blow fell.”“No,” responded Dubard in a rather hard voice. “I am still here—in Rome.” Then after a brief pause he looked the sallow man straight in the face and added, “The question must not be asked in the Chamber. The blow must not be struck—do you understand?”“What do you mean?” cried Borselli, starting to his feet. “What has happened? I see by your face that something has occurred.”“It has,” was the other’s answer. “Montebruno must be stopped.”“Why?”“Because to seek to overthrow Morini at this moment is against our interests.”“Oh!” laughed the other. “So you have just discovered that fact, have you? It is against your interest, of course, because you intend to marry his daughter; but not against mine.”“I tell you that no revelation must be attempted,” said Dubard firmly.“But why do you say this? What is there to prevent the question being put and the Ministry criticised?”“It is unwise. It would be a serious blunder on your part.”“And yet you have assisted me! My dear Jules, I don’t really understand you! Do you not recollect what we arranged in London when our reconciliation took place? Have you forgotten what we agreed only the day before yesterday?”“I have forgotten nothing. I only speak plainly, and say that by making the revelations at the present moment you will imperil your own position.”“No. I shall become Minister on Morini’s downfall. All is arranged. I am not the man to pick the chestnuts out of the fire for others—you surely know that?”“But will you not be incriminated in the matter of certain secret commissions? Did you not rather unfortunately arrange matters and act as the go-between?”“Of course. But I shall be careful enough that my own interest in the matter does not appear. The Minister of Justice is no friend of Morini,” he added, with a grin upon his thin, hard features.“Montebruno must be stopped,” declared Dubard determinedly after a pause. “Let us telephone to him to come here.”“He is already down at the Camera,” said the Under-Secretary, glancing at the little French timepiece on the mantelshelf. “The question is to be put at five, and it is already half-past four.”“But it shall not be put!” cried the young man.“Who will prevent it?” inquired Borselli, looking at him defiantly.“I will,” he said sternly. “Let us be quite plain and outspoken, my dear Angelo. I tell you that you shall not imperil the future by this premature action. Morini knows of the conspiracy against him, and is prepared.”“Well—and if he is? What then?”“He may seek to defend himself in a manner of which you little dream.”Borselli regarded his companion suspiciously, for he saw that he was in possession of some information which he was keeping to himself.“You know something,” he said, fixing his dark eyes upon Dubard. “What is it?”“I only know that it would be most injudicious to make any revelations, or to stir up the public indignation at the present moment,” was the response. “There is no time to lose. You must telephone at once to Montebruno and stop him.”“Impossible. The whole matter is arranged. All the Socialist deputies are in their places awaiting the bolt to be launched.”“Then let them wait. It shall not be launched to-day,” replied Dubard in a clear, distinct voice.“But it shall?” exclaimed Borselli. “It has taken me nearly three years to complete preparations for thiscoup, and I do not intend to abandon it merely because you hint mysteriously that it is premature. I speak quite candidly upon this point.”“And I speak equally candidly when I tell you that Montebruno must not put the question to the Chamber. There are reasons—serious reasons.”He said nothing of his compact with Mary or of his demand of His Excellency for her hand.“And what are they, pray?”“Well,”—and he hesitated. “Well, if thecoupis made at the present moment you will merely imperil yourself, that is all I can say. Morini will retaliate, and charge you with certain things which will place you in a very awkward position.”A silence fell between the two men. Borselli was reflecting upon a certain agreement at which they had arrived when in London.“I really can’t understand you, Jules,” he exclaimed at last. “You have rendered us the most valuable assistance until the present moment, and now, when all is prepared, you suddenly withdraw and make mysterious hints that our efforts may result in serious consequences. What do you mean?”“I mean that the revelations are premature.”“But tell me the truth, once and for all. Are you still on our side, or has the girl’s beauty appealed to you, and you now intend to save her father? I know what a soft, impressionable heart you have—like all your race.”“I am still united with you,” the Frenchman declared quickly. “It is because of that I give you warning.” Borselli’s dark eyes were fixed upon the other’s with a look of quick shrewdness. He was a man whose mind, when once made up, was not easily turned from its purpose.“And your warning I shall certainly not heed,” he said slowly. “You know my intentions, and I shall carry them out to-day to the letter.”“You shall not?” the other exclaimed defiantly.“Oh! and who will prevent it?” asked the Under-Secretary.“I will. You shall not seek your own ruin blindly like this!”Dubard very cleverly endeavoured to convince his companion of his own interest in the conspiracy against Morini, while Borselli, of course, had no knowledge of his compact with Mary. Nevertheless, he saw plainly that the Frenchman’s sudden withdrawal from the affair was due to some hidden motive, and he refused to be turned from his object. To him the overthrow of Morini meant wealth and power, and he had no intention of relinquishing his efforts just at the moment when the reins of office were within his grasp. All was prepared. The revelations were to be made, and charges of misappropriation and treason hurled at the unfortunate Minister; charges which would, on the morrow, be taken up by the subsidised Press and exaggerated and distorted into a public scandal which no statesman, however popular, could withstand. The plot had cost him three years of clever scheming, during which time he had acted as Morini’s humble underling, expressing profound thanks for any small benefits, but secretly hating and despising him, and yet always seeking to worm himself further into his confidence. And Dubard wished him to abandon it all at the very hour when success was assured! No. He flatly refused. And he told his companion so in plain, forcible language.The other, however, merely shrugged his narrow shoulders and was silent, allowing the Under-Secretary to upbraid him without offering a word in self-defence. Then, when Borselli paused to gain breath, he said—“I merely repeat what I have said—the question must not be put.”“I say it shall be put?” cried the other fiercely.Dubard was silent again and quite cool, only the slight flush upon his high cheeks told that a fierce anger consumed him.“If it is put, it will be at your own risk,” he exclaimed at last, placing his forefinger on the table to emphasise his words. “Remember there are many who would gloat over the downfall of Angelo Borselli.”“And there are more who would like to see me Minister of War.”“You will never obtain office if you carry out the scheme you have arranged,” Dubard declared. “I think up to the present I have shown myself your friend, for without me you surely could not have done what you have. You have many times admitted that. Why, therefore, do you not take my advice?”“Because, my dear Jules, you have suddenly turned round and are now championing Morini.”“No, you mistake me. I am merely warning you in our mutual interests. Morini will retaliate—and if he does—!” And again he shrugged his shoulders significantly.“Well, and if he does? What can he do?”“He can make some ugly revelations, you know.”“I have no fear of anything he may allege,” laughed the other. “He cannot establish his innocence.”“Then you will not listen to reason and postpone the public sensation you have arranged for this afternoon?”“No,” replied Angelo. “I will not.”“Then, if you intend to imperil both of us by acting so injudiciously, I, for one, do not intend to suffer.”“What do you mean?”“Simply this. If you are determined not to interfere, and to allow the question to be put and the stream of allegations to pour forth from the Socialists, I shall, in order to save myself, place myself on the side of Morini.”“Of course, my dear Jules. You are always on the side which pays you best,” sneered the other.“And in your company,” remarked the Frenchman quite coolly, adding in a firm voice, “I wish you to give me a line to Montebruno now, this moment, and I will take it to him in the Camera—a word to him to postpone the question.”“I shall do nothing of the sort. I do not intend to sacrifice my future because of your sentimentalities. You are defending Morini.”“Yes,” he cried. “I will defend him! I tell you again, and very clearly, that if Montebruno speaks in the Camera to-day you will be relieved of office.”“Oh, how’s that?”“I am speaking plainly,” Dubard said, with knit brows.“Time does not admit of more words, otherwise Montebruno will rise and put the question. I therefore tell you that if you do not give me the letter I require at once, I shall make a clean breast of the whole affair.” And he glanced at his watch as he spoke.“You!” gasped Borselli quickly, staring at the speaker. “Ah yes! I was a fool to have trusted you after all. I recognised it when too late. You have turned in Morini’s favour.”“I have my own interests to serve as well as yours,” Dubard remarked quite frankly. “It is to my interest that the question is postponed.”“And it is to mine that it should be put.”“But you will not allow Montebruno to proceed, and risk your own position. Remember that in this affair my interests at the moment are not the same as yours.”“And you actually declare that you will tell the truth if Montebruno speaks?” said Borselli hoarsely, realising how completely the man before him held his future in his hands.“I do,” was the response. “You surely know me well enough! In such moments as these I do not trifle. Give me the letter! It is already a quarter to five, and I have only just time to drive to the Camera and place it in Montebruno’s hand.”“But I can’t understand your motive,” exclaimed Borselli, realising that his companion meant what he said. “Remember what we agreed that night in London.”“Perfectly. While our interests are similar, I am your friend; but where they divide, I am friend of myself alone. Come, Angelo, we cannot afford to waste further words—the letter, just two lines, or exposure of the truth. The latter would, I think,” he laughed, “be even a greater sensation to the public than the allegations against the Minister.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well—and if he is? What then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what are they, pray?”

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

A silence fell between the two men. Borselli was reflecting upon a certain agreement at which they had arrived when in London.

“I really can’t understand you, Jules,” he exclaimed at last. “You have rendered us the most valuable assistance until the present moment, and now, when all is prepared, you suddenly withdraw and make mysterious hints that our efforts may result in serious consequences. What do you mean?”

“I mean that the revelations are premature.”

“But tell me the truth, once and for all. Are you still on our side, or has the girl’s beauty appealed to you, and you now intend to save her father? I know what a soft, impressionable heart you have—like all your race.”

“I am still united with you,” the Frenchman declared quickly. “It is because of that I give you warning.” Borselli’s dark eyes were fixed upon the other’s with a look of quick shrewdness. He was a man whose mind, when once made up, was not easily turned from its purpose.

“And your warning I shall certainly not heed,” he said slowly. “You know my intentions, and I shall carry them out to-day to the letter.”

“You shall not?” the other exclaimed defiantly.

“Oh! and who will prevent it?” asked the Under-Secretary.

“I will. You shall not seek your own ruin blindly like this!”

Dubard very cleverly endeavoured to convince his companion of his own interest in the conspiracy against Morini, while Borselli, of course, had no knowledge of his compact with Mary. Nevertheless, he saw plainly that the Frenchman’s sudden withdrawal from the affair was due to some hidden motive, and he refused to be turned from his object. To him the overthrow of Morini meant wealth and power, and he had no intention of relinquishing his efforts just at the moment when the reins of office were within his grasp. All was prepared. The revelations were to be made, and charges of misappropriation and treason hurled at the unfortunate Minister; charges which would, on the morrow, be taken up by the subsidised Press and exaggerated and distorted into a public scandal which no statesman, however popular, could withstand. The plot had cost him three years of clever scheming, during which time he had acted as Morini’s humble underling, expressing profound thanks for any small benefits, but secretly hating and despising him, and yet always seeking to worm himself further into his confidence. And Dubard wished him to abandon it all at the very hour when success was assured! No. He flatly refused. And he told his companion so in plain, forcible language.

The other, however, merely shrugged his narrow shoulders and was silent, allowing the Under-Secretary to upbraid him without offering a word in self-defence. Then, when Borselli paused to gain breath, he said—

“I merely repeat what I have said—the question must not be put.”

“I say it shall be put?” cried the other fiercely.

Dubard was silent again and quite cool, only the slight flush upon his high cheeks told that a fierce anger consumed him.

“If it is put, it will be at your own risk,” he exclaimed at last, placing his forefinger on the table to emphasise his words. “Remember there are many who would gloat over the downfall of Angelo Borselli.”

“And there are more who would like to see me Minister of War.”

“You will never obtain office if you carry out the scheme you have arranged,” Dubard declared. “I think up to the present I have shown myself your friend, for without me you surely could not have done what you have. You have many times admitted that. Why, therefore, do you not take my advice?”

“Because, my dear Jules, you have suddenly turned round and are now championing Morini.”

“No, you mistake me. I am merely warning you in our mutual interests. Morini will retaliate—and if he does—!” And again he shrugged his shoulders significantly.

“Well, and if he does? What can he do?”

“He can make some ugly revelations, you know.”

“I have no fear of anything he may allege,” laughed the other. “He cannot establish his innocence.”

“Then you will not listen to reason and postpone the public sensation you have arranged for this afternoon?”

“No,” replied Angelo. “I will not.”

“Then, if you intend to imperil both of us by acting so injudiciously, I, for one, do not intend to suffer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply this. If you are determined not to interfere, and to allow the question to be put and the stream of allegations to pour forth from the Socialists, I shall, in order to save myself, place myself on the side of Morini.”

“Of course, my dear Jules. You are always on the side which pays you best,” sneered the other.

“And in your company,” remarked the Frenchman quite coolly, adding in a firm voice, “I wish you to give me a line to Montebruno now, this moment, and I will take it to him in the Camera—a word to him to postpone the question.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort. I do not intend to sacrifice my future because of your sentimentalities. You are defending Morini.”

“Yes,” he cried. “I will defend him! I tell you again, and very clearly, that if Montebruno speaks in the Camera to-day you will be relieved of office.”

“Oh, how’s that?”

“I am speaking plainly,” Dubard said, with knit brows.

“Time does not admit of more words, otherwise Montebruno will rise and put the question. I therefore tell you that if you do not give me the letter I require at once, I shall make a clean breast of the whole affair.” And he glanced at his watch as he spoke.

“You!” gasped Borselli quickly, staring at the speaker. “Ah yes! I was a fool to have trusted you after all. I recognised it when too late. You have turned in Morini’s favour.”

“I have my own interests to serve as well as yours,” Dubard remarked quite frankly. “It is to my interest that the question is postponed.”

“And it is to mine that it should be put.”

“But you will not allow Montebruno to proceed, and risk your own position. Remember that in this affair my interests at the moment are not the same as yours.”

“And you actually declare that you will tell the truth if Montebruno speaks?” said Borselli hoarsely, realising how completely the man before him held his future in his hands.

“I do,” was the response. “You surely know me well enough! In such moments as these I do not trifle. Give me the letter! It is already a quarter to five, and I have only just time to drive to the Camera and place it in Montebruno’s hand.”

“But I can’t understand your motive,” exclaimed Borselli, realising that his companion meant what he said. “Remember what we agreed that night in London.”

“Perfectly. While our interests are similar, I am your friend; but where they divide, I am friend of myself alone. Come, Angelo, we cannot afford to waste further words—the letter, just two lines, or exposure of the truth. The latter would, I think,” he laughed, “be even a greater sensation to the public than the allegations against the Minister.”

Chapter Twenty Four.In the Chamber of Deputies.The man who had laid such an elaborate plot against His Excellency stood hesitating and confounded. He had never dreamed that Dubard, upon whom he had relied so implicitly, would be seized with this sudden caprice to defend Morini. Mary might have persuaded him to adopt this course, he reflected, yet he knew Jules too well as a man in whose heart there did not exist a single spark of either respect or true affection for the opposite sex.“Come,” exclaimed the elegant Frenchman, with a look of determination on his pallid countenance. “Write the note quickly, or it will be too late. Recollect, if Montebruno speaks, I shall tell the truth.”“And betray me?”“Of necessity.”Then Angelo Borselli, seeing that all his elaborate preparations for acoupwere checkmated by the very man who had rendered him such valuable help, threw himself into a chair, and muttering some hard words, scribbled three lines to the man, his puppet, who was to hurl those terrible charges against the Minister of War.“Good,” exclaimed Dubard airily, as he took the letter and thrust it into his pocket. “You have done well to save your own reputation, my dear Angelo. It would not be wise for the public to know everything, would it? Excuse me running away so quickly, but I have only just time to drive down to the Camera.” And snatching up his hat he rushed out, leaving the Under-Secretary standing in the centre of the room, silent in disappointment and chagrin.Meanwhile, in the Chamber the excitement among the Socialist group had gradually increased as the hands of the big clock moved on towards the hour of five. They watched Montebruno seated in his place armed with many formidable documents, and saw how he was preparing himself for one of those oratorical efforts for which he was so famous. He was a thin, black-bearded man with small dark eyes and aquiline features—a man who had made the law a stepping-stone to politics like so many of hisconfrères. Time after time he fidgeted, changed his position, stroked his beard thoughtfully, and re-examined his papers, every action being watched anxiously by his party, among whom it was whispered that he was to put some sensational question—but of what character was to them a mystery.The hand of the big clock pointed to the hour of five, and the Chamber was occupied with other business. Vito Ricci, sitting in his place almost opposite Montebruno in the great horseshoe chamber, waited breathlessly, well knowing that the words which would fall from his lips would seal the doom of that man waiting so patiently in his library in the far-off Apennines.The tension of those moments of expectancy was terrible.The clock marked five, ten, fifteen minutes past the hour, when, of a sudden, the voluble Socialist rose, and began by expressing regret at being compelled to take up the time of the Chamber upon a most important and very pressing matter. He had just arrived at that point, holding the whole Camera in attention by his clever oratory, when a prominent member of his own party pulled his coat-tails and handed him a letter. This he tore open mechanically while still speaking, but on glancing at the contents, he hesitated and stopped short in utter confusion.“Go on! Go on!” urged his party wildly, eager to hear what allegations he was about to make against the Government.But regaining his self-possession in a moment, he turned to them, and with a smile said—“Gentlemen, I have just learned, and very fortunately perhaps, that I have been somewhat misinformed regarding certain matters to which I intended directing the attention of the Camera, and therefore I will no longer occupy your time.”And he sat down abruptly, whereat those in opposition jeered at him, and even the Socialists themselves rose and went out in disgust, disappointed at relinquishing what was promised to be a staggering blow against the Government. With them went Vito Ricci, who, ten minutes later, was in the Ministry of War describing the curious scene to Camillo Morini over the telephone.The words he spoke put fresh life and hope into the despairing Minister. He breathed again when he heard how he had been saved almost by a miracle. Then he walked to his table, and the letters he had written he carried to the fireplace and there lit them with a wax vesta and watched them consume—all save the order for Solaro’s release and reinstatement.He held the latter in his hand for a long time thinking deeply. But at last the temptation grew too strong within him, for slowly, and with seeming reluctance, he opened it, applied a match, destroying it as he had done the others, and as he watched it burn to black tinder he murmured to himself—“No! I dare not release him. If I did they might suspect—suspect. And yet Mary declares that he is innocent! What, I wonder, can she know?”New life had been created within him, new hope, new aspirations. A moment before he had looked upon that tiny tube with its fatal tabloids as the only means by which he could escape his enemies, but now he laughed to himself as he placed it in a drawer of the writing-table—laughed at his own cowardice.He never dreamed that he had been saved by Mary’s self-sacrifice. The incident, as related by Ricci over the telephone, was curious and mysterious. The letter handed to the man who had risen to denounce him had evidently contained something which prevented him making the charges, but what it was he could not imagine.To him the whole affair was a complete mystery, which he left to Vito Ricci to unravel and report.When his wife and the girls returned, they found him idling on the terrace beneath the pretty arbour from which spread that glorious view of the Arno valley up to Florence. He was a changed man from an hour before—that hour when he had come face to face with ruin and death. By the mysterious turn which events had taken a new life had suddenly opened to him. The blow they intended to aim at him had apparently been abandoned, even though all preparations had been made. The reason was an utter enigma.He laughed merrily with Mary and the English girls as they came along the terrace where he was sitting idly smoking a cigar, inquiring where they had been and how they had found the lady they had visited.All three began to chatter, as was their wont, while Her Excellency, fatigued after the drive, entered the house to rest before dinner. She, however, did not fail to notice her husband’s unusual good-humour, for of late he had been thoughtful and depressed, silent and moody when in her presence, and apparently full of serious state affairs.The instant Mary saw her father’s countenance she read the truth. She had left the villa well knowing—through Dubard, who had sent her word in secret—that the blow was to be dealt that afternoon. She knew all that her father was suffering, and she feared the worst, even though she had made that compact with the man she suspected and despised. She had dreaded to return lest some hideous tragedy should have occurred, and all the time she was absent she had reproached herself that she had not remained at his side to support and encourage him in face of the threatened peril.But the danger was over. He had no doubt received word over the telephone, for he was his own old self again, and began chaffing Violet Walters, the blue-eyed daughter of the London barrister, regarding a young lieutenant of thebersaglieri, an aristocrat of Florence, who had dined with them on the previous evening, and towards whom she had been very much attracted.“It is really too bad!” declared the English girl, blushing to her eyes. “You declare that I’m in love with every good-looking man, and I’m sure I’m not.”“We Italians always find English girls very charming,” His Excellency said, smiling. “That is why I married an Englishwoman myself,” whereat the two Fry girls, pale-faced and insipid, tittered to themselves.“Really it was most disgraceful of Violet to flirt with young Capponi as she did last night!” exclaimed Mary mischievously, upholding her father’s view.“I did not!” protested the barrister’s daughter. “You know I didn’t, Mary!”“He’ll be proposing next Monday when he comes again to dinner, and you’ll be the Marchesa Capponi,” Mary said, spreading out her skirts and bowing with mock obeisance.Her father, full of good-humour now that the terror of those anxious hours had passed, rose, and placing his hand kindly on Violet’s shoulder, assured her that his words were not meant to be taken seriously; for he saw the girl’s indignation was rising, and that she resented being accused of flirtation before the two daughters of the Genoese merchant.They all gossiped together for some time, until presently Mary went forth, as usual, to accompany her father on his evening stroll through the pine woods.When alone, His Excellency was the first to speak, explaining to her all that Vito Ricci had related over the telephone.“Then the crisis is prevented,” she remarked, in a strange, mechanical voice, he thought. He had expected her to betray surprise and joy, but, on the contrary, she received the information of his escape with an inertness which surprised him. “It must have been the letter handed to the Socialist deputy,” she added.“Without doubt,” he remarked. “But how annoyed and disappointed Angelo must be at the failure of his scheme just at the very moment when his triumph was assured.”“I expect so,” his daughter said, walking slowly at his side, her eyes fixed upon the ground. Her father had been saved at the cost of her own happiness, her own life. But would that man adhere to his compact? she wondered. Was the crisis only postponed until after her marriage—until after she had given herself to him in exchange for her father’s life? She knew too well that he would never face exposure; she knew, alas! that, like many before him, he would rather take his own life than bear the brunt of those scurrilous and unscrupulous attacks. He had more than once told her so—not directly, of course, but in language that was unmistakable.She had had no confidence in Dubard since the night when he had examined the safe in the library. He would, she felt assured, play her false. His ingenuity was unparalleled, and he was, moreover, a friend of her father’s bitterest enemy. Therefore, what had she to hope from him? The attack upon the Minister and his methods was only postponed in order to lure her and her father into a sense of security. What was to prevent the allegation being made after she had given herself to him in marriage? As she walked there in the evening light beneath the high dark pines she fully realised the insecurity of the position. In the end the man Borselli must triumph, and she, with her father, would be equally a victim.What her father had told her of the incident in the Chamber that afternoon revealed the truth. Dubard had, by his clever scheming, succeeded in postponing the blow until after she had become his wife. She knew well his intimate friendship with Angelo Borselli, and felt assured that it was in the interests of the Under-Secretary that he had opened that safe which His Excellency had believed to be closed so effectively to everyone.“You will seek to retaliate, will you not?” she asked her father suddenly. “You will surely not allow Borselli another opportunity of conspiring against you! He should be removed from office upon some pretext or other.”Her father smiled at her words, and replied—“It would be easy to retaliate, my dear, but it would be unwise.”“Why? If he remains in office, he may to-morrow, or on some occasion when you least expect it, level a blow that might crush you?”“I know! I know!” he groaned. “I am not safe by any means. Until Vito discovers what has really occurred I must remain patiently inactive.”“But why not remove Borselli from office? You could surely do that! It is your duty to yourself to do so!”“Ah! You do not know everything, Mary,” answered her father very gravely. “To attempt his dismissal at the present moment would be a most injudicious course. By making charges against him I should also implicate myself. If I spoke a single word to his detriment, it would be suicidal. I should be seeking my own downfall.”“Then, to speak plainly, you are unable to dismiss him?” she said in a low, distinct voice, looking her father straight in the face with a glance of reproach. “You are entirely in that man’s hands?”His Excellency, grave and thoughtful again, nodded in the affirmative, sighed heavily, and then admitted—“You know the truth, my dear. My secrets are, unfortunately, his?”And she echoed his sigh with her white lips compressed. She foresaw, alas! that for her there was no hope of escape from that hideous compact she had been compelled to make. She had given herself as the price of her father’s honour, the price of his very life, to a man whom she could neither trust nor love—a man who, when it suited his own interests, would break his bond without the slightest compunction, and allow the crushing blow to fall upon her house—a blow that must be fatal to her beloved father, who stood there so grave and thoughtful at her side.She contemplated the future, but saw in it only a grey, limitless sea of blank despair.

The man who had laid such an elaborate plot against His Excellency stood hesitating and confounded. He had never dreamed that Dubard, upon whom he had relied so implicitly, would be seized with this sudden caprice to defend Morini. Mary might have persuaded him to adopt this course, he reflected, yet he knew Jules too well as a man in whose heart there did not exist a single spark of either respect or true affection for the opposite sex.

“Come,” exclaimed the elegant Frenchman, with a look of determination on his pallid countenance. “Write the note quickly, or it will be too late. Recollect, if Montebruno speaks, I shall tell the truth.”

“And betray me?”

“Of necessity.”

Then Angelo Borselli, seeing that all his elaborate preparations for acoupwere checkmated by the very man who had rendered him such valuable help, threw himself into a chair, and muttering some hard words, scribbled three lines to the man, his puppet, who was to hurl those terrible charges against the Minister of War.

“Good,” exclaimed Dubard airily, as he took the letter and thrust it into his pocket. “You have done well to save your own reputation, my dear Angelo. It would not be wise for the public to know everything, would it? Excuse me running away so quickly, but I have only just time to drive down to the Camera.” And snatching up his hat he rushed out, leaving the Under-Secretary standing in the centre of the room, silent in disappointment and chagrin.

Meanwhile, in the Chamber the excitement among the Socialist group had gradually increased as the hands of the big clock moved on towards the hour of five. They watched Montebruno seated in his place armed with many formidable documents, and saw how he was preparing himself for one of those oratorical efforts for which he was so famous. He was a thin, black-bearded man with small dark eyes and aquiline features—a man who had made the law a stepping-stone to politics like so many of hisconfrères. Time after time he fidgeted, changed his position, stroked his beard thoughtfully, and re-examined his papers, every action being watched anxiously by his party, among whom it was whispered that he was to put some sensational question—but of what character was to them a mystery.

The hand of the big clock pointed to the hour of five, and the Chamber was occupied with other business. Vito Ricci, sitting in his place almost opposite Montebruno in the great horseshoe chamber, waited breathlessly, well knowing that the words which would fall from his lips would seal the doom of that man waiting so patiently in his library in the far-off Apennines.

The tension of those moments of expectancy was terrible.

The clock marked five, ten, fifteen minutes past the hour, when, of a sudden, the voluble Socialist rose, and began by expressing regret at being compelled to take up the time of the Chamber upon a most important and very pressing matter. He had just arrived at that point, holding the whole Camera in attention by his clever oratory, when a prominent member of his own party pulled his coat-tails and handed him a letter. This he tore open mechanically while still speaking, but on glancing at the contents, he hesitated and stopped short in utter confusion.

“Go on! Go on!” urged his party wildly, eager to hear what allegations he was about to make against the Government.

But regaining his self-possession in a moment, he turned to them, and with a smile said—

“Gentlemen, I have just learned, and very fortunately perhaps, that I have been somewhat misinformed regarding certain matters to which I intended directing the attention of the Camera, and therefore I will no longer occupy your time.”

And he sat down abruptly, whereat those in opposition jeered at him, and even the Socialists themselves rose and went out in disgust, disappointed at relinquishing what was promised to be a staggering blow against the Government. With them went Vito Ricci, who, ten minutes later, was in the Ministry of War describing the curious scene to Camillo Morini over the telephone.

The words he spoke put fresh life and hope into the despairing Minister. He breathed again when he heard how he had been saved almost by a miracle. Then he walked to his table, and the letters he had written he carried to the fireplace and there lit them with a wax vesta and watched them consume—all save the order for Solaro’s release and reinstatement.

He held the latter in his hand for a long time thinking deeply. But at last the temptation grew too strong within him, for slowly, and with seeming reluctance, he opened it, applied a match, destroying it as he had done the others, and as he watched it burn to black tinder he murmured to himself—

“No! I dare not release him. If I did they might suspect—suspect. And yet Mary declares that he is innocent! What, I wonder, can she know?”

New life had been created within him, new hope, new aspirations. A moment before he had looked upon that tiny tube with its fatal tabloids as the only means by which he could escape his enemies, but now he laughed to himself as he placed it in a drawer of the writing-table—laughed at his own cowardice.

He never dreamed that he had been saved by Mary’s self-sacrifice. The incident, as related by Ricci over the telephone, was curious and mysterious. The letter handed to the man who had risen to denounce him had evidently contained something which prevented him making the charges, but what it was he could not imagine.

To him the whole affair was a complete mystery, which he left to Vito Ricci to unravel and report.

When his wife and the girls returned, they found him idling on the terrace beneath the pretty arbour from which spread that glorious view of the Arno valley up to Florence. He was a changed man from an hour before—that hour when he had come face to face with ruin and death. By the mysterious turn which events had taken a new life had suddenly opened to him. The blow they intended to aim at him had apparently been abandoned, even though all preparations had been made. The reason was an utter enigma.

He laughed merrily with Mary and the English girls as they came along the terrace where he was sitting idly smoking a cigar, inquiring where they had been and how they had found the lady they had visited.

All three began to chatter, as was their wont, while Her Excellency, fatigued after the drive, entered the house to rest before dinner. She, however, did not fail to notice her husband’s unusual good-humour, for of late he had been thoughtful and depressed, silent and moody when in her presence, and apparently full of serious state affairs.

The instant Mary saw her father’s countenance she read the truth. She had left the villa well knowing—through Dubard, who had sent her word in secret—that the blow was to be dealt that afternoon. She knew all that her father was suffering, and she feared the worst, even though she had made that compact with the man she suspected and despised. She had dreaded to return lest some hideous tragedy should have occurred, and all the time she was absent she had reproached herself that she had not remained at his side to support and encourage him in face of the threatened peril.

But the danger was over. He had no doubt received word over the telephone, for he was his own old self again, and began chaffing Violet Walters, the blue-eyed daughter of the London barrister, regarding a young lieutenant of thebersaglieri, an aristocrat of Florence, who had dined with them on the previous evening, and towards whom she had been very much attracted.

“It is really too bad!” declared the English girl, blushing to her eyes. “You declare that I’m in love with every good-looking man, and I’m sure I’m not.”

“We Italians always find English girls very charming,” His Excellency said, smiling. “That is why I married an Englishwoman myself,” whereat the two Fry girls, pale-faced and insipid, tittered to themselves.

“Really it was most disgraceful of Violet to flirt with young Capponi as she did last night!” exclaimed Mary mischievously, upholding her father’s view.

“I did not!” protested the barrister’s daughter. “You know I didn’t, Mary!”

“He’ll be proposing next Monday when he comes again to dinner, and you’ll be the Marchesa Capponi,” Mary said, spreading out her skirts and bowing with mock obeisance.

Her father, full of good-humour now that the terror of those anxious hours had passed, rose, and placing his hand kindly on Violet’s shoulder, assured her that his words were not meant to be taken seriously; for he saw the girl’s indignation was rising, and that she resented being accused of flirtation before the two daughters of the Genoese merchant.

They all gossiped together for some time, until presently Mary went forth, as usual, to accompany her father on his evening stroll through the pine woods.

When alone, His Excellency was the first to speak, explaining to her all that Vito Ricci had related over the telephone.

“Then the crisis is prevented,” she remarked, in a strange, mechanical voice, he thought. He had expected her to betray surprise and joy, but, on the contrary, she received the information of his escape with an inertness which surprised him. “It must have been the letter handed to the Socialist deputy,” she added.

“Without doubt,” he remarked. “But how annoyed and disappointed Angelo must be at the failure of his scheme just at the very moment when his triumph was assured.”

“I expect so,” his daughter said, walking slowly at his side, her eyes fixed upon the ground. Her father had been saved at the cost of her own happiness, her own life. But would that man adhere to his compact? she wondered. Was the crisis only postponed until after her marriage—until after she had given herself to him in exchange for her father’s life? She knew too well that he would never face exposure; she knew, alas! that, like many before him, he would rather take his own life than bear the brunt of those scurrilous and unscrupulous attacks. He had more than once told her so—not directly, of course, but in language that was unmistakable.

She had had no confidence in Dubard since the night when he had examined the safe in the library. He would, she felt assured, play her false. His ingenuity was unparalleled, and he was, moreover, a friend of her father’s bitterest enemy. Therefore, what had she to hope from him? The attack upon the Minister and his methods was only postponed in order to lure her and her father into a sense of security. What was to prevent the allegation being made after she had given herself to him in marriage? As she walked there in the evening light beneath the high dark pines she fully realised the insecurity of the position. In the end the man Borselli must triumph, and she, with her father, would be equally a victim.

What her father had told her of the incident in the Chamber that afternoon revealed the truth. Dubard had, by his clever scheming, succeeded in postponing the blow until after she had become his wife. She knew well his intimate friendship with Angelo Borselli, and felt assured that it was in the interests of the Under-Secretary that he had opened that safe which His Excellency had believed to be closed so effectively to everyone.

“You will seek to retaliate, will you not?” she asked her father suddenly. “You will surely not allow Borselli another opportunity of conspiring against you! He should be removed from office upon some pretext or other.”

Her father smiled at her words, and replied—

“It would be easy to retaliate, my dear, but it would be unwise.”

“Why? If he remains in office, he may to-morrow, or on some occasion when you least expect it, level a blow that might crush you?”

“I know! I know!” he groaned. “I am not safe by any means. Until Vito discovers what has really occurred I must remain patiently inactive.”

“But why not remove Borselli from office? You could surely do that! It is your duty to yourself to do so!”

“Ah! You do not know everything, Mary,” answered her father very gravely. “To attempt his dismissal at the present moment would be a most injudicious course. By making charges against him I should also implicate myself. If I spoke a single word to his detriment, it would be suicidal. I should be seeking my own downfall.”

“Then, to speak plainly, you are unable to dismiss him?” she said in a low, distinct voice, looking her father straight in the face with a glance of reproach. “You are entirely in that man’s hands?”

His Excellency, grave and thoughtful again, nodded in the affirmative, sighed heavily, and then admitted—

“You know the truth, my dear. My secrets are, unfortunately, his?”

And she echoed his sigh with her white lips compressed. She foresaw, alas! that for her there was no hope of escape from that hideous compact she had been compelled to make. She had given herself as the price of her father’s honour, the price of his very life, to a man whom she could neither trust nor love—a man who, when it suited his own interests, would break his bond without the slightest compunction, and allow the crushing blow to fall upon her house—a blow that must be fatal to her beloved father, who stood there so grave and thoughtful at her side.

She contemplated the future, but saw in it only a grey, limitless sea of blank despair.

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