Part 19 (1/2)
”By what means did he learn the truth?”
”Ah, that is not clear!” responded the thin-faced man. ”He knows; but how, is more than we can tell. The merchant of provisions, his employer, was the general's friend. Therefore the general probably knew the secretary, and may have taken him into his confidence! Cannot you therefore see that the fellow must be given an appointment in our Ministry? We cannot afford to allow him to remain the secretary of this parvenu, treated worse than a dog, ill-paid and sneered at on account of his superior birth and education. We must run no risk.”
”Then the English Member of Parliament is not a very good employer--eh?”
”The reverse; a very bad one. He is a man who rose from being an a.s.sistant in a grocer's shop in a London suburb to be what he is, the greatest dealer in provisions in all the world--a man who is wors.h.i.+pped in London society because of his millions, and upon whose smile even an English d.u.c.h.ess will hang. Ah, my dear Camillo! You, although you have a house in England, do not know those English. They are a people of millions; and in society they count their virtues by the millions they possess. I know a man who was a waiter in an hotel in South Africa a few years ago who now has the proud English n.o.bility--their milords and their miladies--around his table. They eat his dinners, they shoot his birds, they use his yacht, they beg of him for loans--and yet they jeer and laugh at him behind his back. It is so with this member of the English Parliament to whom our young friend now acts as secretary.”
”I cannot see your point,” said the Minister of War, his uniform-hat tucked beneath his arm.
”Cannot you see that if this Englishman really knows the story of Sazarac it is to our mutual interests that he should not speak of it?
It might mean ruin for us,” Borselli pointed out in a low, earnest voice. ”Cannot you see that, being in the employ of that pompous hog-merchant Morgan-Mason, and badly paid for his services he is longing for a higher and more lucrative position? Is it not but natural? He knows Italy, and would be only too eager to accept an appointment in the Ministry--where we really want a good English secretary. Such a man would be of the utmost value to both of us.”
”Then you suggest that we should offer him an appointment?”
”Exactly,” was Borselli's reply. ”If you agree to give the fellow a secretarys.h.i.+p, leave the rest to me. He will be only too eager to accept an appointment under the Government, and once in Rome and in our employ, he will never dare to open his mouth regarding the ugly affair.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
COUNTING THE COST.
Next day at noon Mary, who was out driving in the smart English victoria, called at the Ministry and again sat alone with her father trying to persuade him to order an inquiry into the case of the unfortunate Felice Solaro.
”It is useless, my dear,” was his impatient answer. ”He has already been here himself, but the case is proved up to the very hilt. I therefore cannot interfere.”
”Proved by that woman Nodari?” she cried, with fierce indignation.
Then, after a pause, she leaned towards him and said in a low, earnest voice, ”You will not allow an inquiry because you fear its result, father?”
”Hus.h.!.+ Who told you that?” he gasped, staring at her.
”No one. It is only a logical conclusion. The captain is the victim of a wicked conspiracy, and he is suffering in silence because he knows the utter futility of appeal.”
”He has already appealed to me.”
”And you have refused him justice!” was his daughter's quick reproachful declaration. ”You are surely not unjust, father? You cannot be.”
The tall, distinguished-looking man was silent, and rising, walked up the long strip of carpet placed upon the marble floor. Then slowly he returned to her, and looking straight into her face, said--
”My hands are tied, my girl. I am powerless, I confess to you.”
”But in your heart you believe that he is innocent? Tell me the truth.”
”Yes,” he whispered in a broken voice. ”I do--I do.”
She made no response. His admission was full of a poignant meaning.
She saw that he was somehow fettered, held in some mysterious bondage of which she was in ignorance.
Again she spoke of the examination of the safe by Dubard, but this matter he seemed disinclined to discuss, and pleading other affairs, he urged her to return home and await him at luncheon.
At three o'clock, after eating his midday meal with her, he went forth again to make a round of official calls, when, a quarter of an hour later, the Italian footman threw open the long white doors of the small salon where Mary was sitting writing letters, and announced--
”Comte Dubard!”