Part 18 (1/2)

”Then you dare not face your enemies if they are actually in possession of what is contained in the safe?” she said slowly, rising and placing her hand tenderly upon her father's shoulder. She realised for the first time that her father, the man whom she had trusted so implicitly since her childhood, held some guilty secret.

”No, my dear, I dare not,” was his reply, placing his trembling hand upon her arm.

”But you are unaware of how much knowledge Count Dubard has obtained,”

she pointed out.

”Sufficient in any case to cause my ruin,” replied the grey-haired Minister of War. ”That is, of course, if he is not after all my friend.”

”But he is your friend, father,” she was compelled to exclaim, in order to give him courage, for she had never in her life seen him so overcome.

”Those midnight investigations are, as you have said, a curious way of demonstrating friends.h.i.+p,” he remarked blankly. ”No,” he added in a dry, hard tone. ”To-day is the beginning of the end. These are my last days of office, Mary. The vote may be taken in the Chamber any day, and then--” and his eyes wandered involuntarily to that drawer in his writing-table wherein reposed his revolver, which, alas! more than once of late he had handled so fondly.

”And after that--what?” his daughter asked anxiously.

But only a deep sigh ran through the lofty room, and then she realised that her father's kindly eyes were filled with tears.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE SAZARAC AFFAIR.

The great gilded ballroom of the French Emba.s.sy in Rome was thronged by a brilliant crowd, even though it was out of the season and the majority of the official and diplomatic world were still absent from the Eternal City, in the mountains or at the baths.

The bright uniforms, the glittering stars and coloured ribbons worn by the men, and the magnificent toilettes of the women, combined to form a perfect phantasmagoria of colour beneath the huge crystal electroliers.

The orchestra was playing a waltz, and many of the guests were dancing; for the floor at the Farnese Palace was the best in Rome. Camillo Morini, though in no mood for gaiety and obliged to attend, was wandering aimlessly through the rooms, exchanging salutes with the men he knew and now and then bowing low over a woman's hand. In his brilliant uniform as Minister of War, with the cerise and white ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy and a number of minor decorations, he presented a strikingly handsome figure, tall, erect, and distinguished-looking, as he strode through the huge painted salons dazzling with their heavy gilt mirrors and giant palms, a man of power in that complex nation, modern Italy.

After Mary had sought him and revealed the amazing fact of Dubard's secret investigations, she had gone on home to the palace with her maid Teresa, where he had joined her about six o'clock.

Father and daughter had dined alone in the long, high, old frescoed room. Few words they exchanged, for both felt that a crisis was imminent, and that if the blow fell the catastrophe must be overwhelming and complete. A true bond of deepest sympathy had always existed between them, for, as an only child, he had lavished upon her all his affection, while she, in turn, regarded him with a strong affection unusual in these decadent days. More than once since she had returned from the Broadstairs school she had been his a.s.sistant and adviser in the hours when she had found him alone and agitated as he so often was.

More than once, indeed, he had confided in her, telling her of affairs which he withheld even from his wife for fear of unduly disturbing her in her delicate state of health. Often he had, of his own accord, sought his daughter's counsel. Hence she was in possession of many confidential facts concerning persons and politics in Rome, and with her woman's keen perception had already in consequence become a trained diplomat.

In the long and painful silence during dinner he urged her to accompany him to the French Amba.s.sador's reception, adding with a sigh, ”I would rather remain at home with you, my dear; but I must go. It will not do for me to betray any sign of fear.”

”Go, certainly. It is your duty, father. But I am really too tired after my journey.”

And so she excused herself from accompanying him, and went off early to her room.

His Excellency had been chatting with the Prince Demidoff, the Russian Amba.s.sador, and was pa.s.sing into the great ballroom, where the gaiety was then at its height, when he came face to face with Angelo Borselli, gorgeous in his brilliant general's uniform.

”Ah, my dear Camillo!” exclaimed the latter. ”I only returned from Paris to-day, and called upon you on my way here. I must see you at once--privately.”

The Minister, who had not met the Under-Secretary since the adventurer Ricci had revealed to him the truth regarding the Socialist conspiracy, controlled his feelings with marvellous calmness, and greeted his friend effusively.

”Why?” asked His Excellency under his breath. ”Has anything happened?”

”A good deal. But here the very walls have ears,” was the answer. ”I have come in search of you.”

”Well?” asked the Minister of War in abrupt surprise, recollecting the warning Ricci had already given him.