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 a.s.sociation 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, hoa.r.s.e 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 doc.u.ment 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 const.i.tuted 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 a.s.sistance 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 bombsh.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed. 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sisted 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."