"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 friendship," 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.

"Come with me. I know my way about this place," Borselli said. "There is an anteroom at the end of the south corridor where we can talk without risk of eavesdroppers."

Their host, Baron Riboulet, the French Amba.s.sador, a tall, handsome, brown-bearded man, stopped and greeted the pair at that moment, while several other personages well-known in Roman society came up to pay their respects to His Excellency the Minister. Then at last the Under-Secretary managed to whisper--

"Let's get away. I must see you without further delay. Come."

And together they strolled through the magnificent salons with their brilliant crowds and presently entered a small, barely furnished room in a distant part of the historic old palace which is now the residence of the representative of the French Republic. As soon as they were within Borselli switched on the electric light, closed the door and locked it.

When he turned to the Minister the latter saw that his countenance had changed. He was pale and anxious, as though he had information of the highest importance to impart.

"Well?" asked Morini, wondering why he had brought him there so mysteriously.

"I have been in London again," the other exclaimed. "The truth of the Sazarac affair is known!"

Camillo Morini held his breath, his brows knit themselves, and his teeth were set hard. If this were a fact, then Borselli himself must have revealed the truth, for he alone knew it. What Ricci had told him had opened his eyes to this fellow's secret intentions. This was, no doubt, part of the vile, despicable conspiracy to secure the downfall of the Ministry. He knew that Angelo Borselli, the ambitious schemer with the rank of general, who owed everything to him, was his bitterest opponent, and he now saw an opportunity of fathoming the ingenious ramifications of the plot that was to effect his ruin. He was, however, too well versed in statesmanship to betray in his face the inner workings of his mind, and Borselli, notwithstanding that consummate craft which was his most prominent characteristic, had no suspicion that his chief was aware of the conspiracy.

"If the truth regarding General Sazarac is out, my dear Angelo," he said quite calmly, "then you must forgive me for suspecting that the catastrophe is due to your own indiscretion."

"Ah, my dear friend, there you are entirely wrong!" the other declared in a low, intense voice. "A man whom you know in England is well aware of the whole of the facts."

"And who is he, pray?" inquired the Minister, still preserving an outward calm that was perfect.

"The young Englishman George Macbean--the man who was staying with Sinclair of Thornby."

"Macbean?" slowly repeated His Excellency, gradually recalling to his memory the young Englishman whom Mary had introduced to him upon his own lawn. "Ah, of course! I recollect. He is Sinclair's nephew, and secretary to that fellow Morgan-Mason who came to Rome to see us about provisioning."

"The same. He knows everything."

The Minister was silent. His brows were knit. He recollected Macbean quite well, and wondered whether what Borselli was telling him were the actual truth. Since Vito Ricci had revealed the amazing cunning with which the Under-Secretary was working, he naturally mistrusted him.

"Well, and what does it matter?" asked Morini, still quite cool.

"Matter?" gasped the other. "Matter? Why, if he reveals what he knows it will mean ruin for us both--ruin?"

"You have expressed fear several times, my dear Angelo," laughed the Minister, leaning easily with his back to the table. "For myself, I entertain no fear. How did you discover that he held this knowledge?"

"I had my suspicions, and I therefore returned to England and found him in London. I did not approach him myself, of course, but from information I gathered I know that he must be aware of the whole truth.

That being so, we must not risk any revelations."

"But even if he really does know, what motive could he ever have in bringing any distinct charge?" queried Morini, facing the man who, he knew, intended to himself occupy the post of Minister of War.

"You forget that he is secretary to that overbearing parvenu Morgan-Mason, and that the latter was Sazarac's most intimate friend."

Camillo Morini bit his lip. He had never thought of that. The affair of General Sazarac was to the public a mystery--one which the English Member of Parliament had actively endeavoured to solve. The young Englishman Macbean, if he really knew the truth, might be induced by his employer to speak! In an instant he recognised a further peril in a quarter hitherto entirely unexpected.

"You are quite certain he knows?"

"Absolutely."