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 a.s.sociating himself so closely with your enemy if he intends to marry your daughter! He surely cannot antic.i.p.ate 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 a.s.sisted 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 hoa.r.s.ely, 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 gla.s.s 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 bra.s.s k.n.o.bs 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 circ.u.mstances, 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. Circ.u.mstances 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.