George Macbean stood still, gripping the moss-grown rail, glaring at his accuser, though no word escaped his lips.

"The cognac you gave to the general was never suspected by the doctors, who declared the fatality to be due to an internal malady from which he had long suffered, and which was known might cause sudden death. The gallant officer was buried with military honours in Nice, and none were aware of the truth save Solaro and I. We knew that a sum of money which the general had upon him had been stolen, and further, that the brandy you had given him you had not dared to drink yourself. In secret, we charged you with the general's murder, for the sake of the money upon him; but you defied us, and made a gallant fight to brave it out. But it was useless. Solaro declared that you had concealed the money, whereupon you offered to allow us to search your possessions, and we found a draft on the Credit Lyonnais in the flap of your writing-case.

You offered to allow us to seal, before your eyes, the brandy in the bottle in your room, together with that remaining in your flask, and we sent it to be a.n.a.lysed by an a.n.a.lyst in Paris whom you yourself named.

You hoped to mislead us, to disarm our suspicions by allowing us to make all the inquiries we, as friends of the general, thought fit! Ah! that was a fatal mistake, my friend! You condemned yourself. The a.n.a.lyst's report does not lie. I still have it here, in my pocket-book, and do you know what it says? It states that the contents of both bottle and the flask filled from it were submitted to the tests of Marsh, Reinsch, and Fresenius, and in each case the result was the same--the cognac contained sufficient of a specific irritant poison of an a.r.s.enical nature to render a single mouthful of it a fatal dose! This doc.u.ment,"

he added, touching his breast-pocket as he spoke, "proves you to be the murderer of Felix Sazarac--you poisoned him deliberately when up alone in that mountain pa.s.s, and Solaro found in your effects part of the money you stole from the dead man's pockets?"

Macbean tried to speak, but his throat contracted; he was unable. Alas!

that terrible truth had been ever before him since that fatal day in spring, when his life had been fettered. Try how he would, he could not put from him the horror of those awful hours. There were, unfortunately, witnesses against him, witnesses who could prove his guilt and send him to an a.s.sa.s.sin's punishment.

"Well?" he managed to gasp at last in a low, half-frightened voice, his heart beating quickly as he half turned and faced his accuser.

"Only this," answered Jules Dubard determinedly; "silence for silence!

You understand now, my friend--silence for silence!"

And then the two men parted.

The morning dawned bright and sunny--the morning of Mary's wedding day-- one of those fresh, brilliant days in June when the gra.s.s-country looks its gladdest and best.

The bells were pealing merrily from the old church-tower of Orton in honour of the event, upon the lawn a large marquee had been erected, and the men down from London with the wedding breakfast were bustling everywhere, while the excitement out in the village was intense.

Morini and his wife were both happy at the match, and in the long dining-room some of the presents were displayed, including a splendid pearl collar from Her Majesty the Queen of Italy. The house was full of visitors, several of them being persons of the highest aristocracy in Italy, who had been specially invited over for the wedding, and there was gaiety everywhere.

The only person who took no part in the bustle was the bride herself, for alone in her bright little room she was upon her knees imploring the Divine aid for strength in that hour of her greatest trial.

During those past weeks, as each day brought her nearer that hateful union, she had pondered deeply, trying to devise some means by which to escape, but alas! she saw too well that refusal would only bring ruin upon her father's head; while, if she did marry Dubard, she had no security that the blow would not fall upon her family afterwards. So she had been compelled to bow to the inevitable, to make that sacrifice of her love, of her very life.

Those who had seen her in Rome lolling in her splendid carriage drawn by that perfect pair of English bays, dancing in those gilded salons, or laughing with her neighbour at dinner at one or other of the foreign emba.s.sies, had surely never dreamed that that bright, happy girl, whose engagement was discussed everywhere, had such a heavy burden of sorrow within her young heart.

Before her lay her bridal gown, a magnificent creation from the Rue de la Paix, with old lace that had once belonged to the extinct royal house of Naples. But when she gazed upon it she burst into a flood of tears, and sank again upon her knees in desperation.

Teresa came at last and tried to calm her.

"Signorina! signorina!" she exclaimed, stroking the dark hair, which, unbound, fell upon her shoulders. "Your eyes will look so red. Oh, surely you should be happy to-day!"

"Happy!" groaned the unfortunate girl bitterly, as she slowly staggered to her feet. "There is no happiness for me--none--none."

At last the pale-faced girl, summoning up all the courage she possessed, seated herself before the mirror, and having allowed Teresa to dress her hair for the bridal, proceeded, with the help of Santina, her mother's maid, her mother, and Vi Walters--who was one of the wedding guests--to put on the gown with its wonderful train and real orange-blossoms from the orangery at San Donato.

Meanwhile, however, in the study below, Camillo Morini was sitting with his enemy, Angelo Borselli, who had practically invited himself on a flying visit to the ceremony, and whom he could not well refuse without giving him a direct insult. Morini hated the man who had ever been his evil genius, but in the present circ.u.mstances dared not openly quarrel with him. Therefore he treated him with diplomatic friendliness.

They were smoking their cigars together when Dubard, elegantly dressed, entered merrily, and greeted them. Borselli had only arrived late on the previous night, therefore he had not seen him before.

"Well, my friend!" cried the Sicilian, "I congratulate you. You will have the best of wives in all the world--and the best of fathers-in-law, that I'm sure."

"Ah, I'm certain I shall," replied the bridegroom. "But what great preparations are being made!"

"Half the country will be here to the reception later on," Morini remarked, laughing.

"Where is your secretary--Macbean?" inquired Dubard.

"He is not here yet. He is staying with his uncle over at Thornby," was His Excellency's reply.

And the bridegroom smiled to himself. His words of the previous night would, he knew, have their effect.

Silence for silence!

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

REVELATIONS.

At that moment, however, the door suddenly opened, causing the three men to turn and glance, when, to their surprise, they saw, standing before them, the man whose name had just been mentioned. Dubard held his breath. Macbean's face was bloodless, his lips quivered, his hands were clenched, his whole countenance seemed to have altered in those moments of tension and determination, and as he closed the door behind him and advanced boldly into the room, trying to speak in a cool voice, he addressed the Minister--

"Your Excellency, the tragedy of this marriage must not take place--for your own sake, as well as for your daughter's."

In an instant the three men were upon their feet, electrified by the Englishman's startling words.

"What do you mean?" asked Morini, looking at him amazed.

"Yes," cried Dubard, stepping forward angrily. "Let us hear what this fellow means."

"You wish to hear," exclaimed Macbean, facing the Frenchman boldly.

"Then listen! I allege that Miss Morini has been forced into this marriage by you--and by that man there," he added, pointing to the sallow-faced Sicilian. "If you doubt me," he said, turning to the Minister of War, "ask her yourself. This man Dubard made a promise to her that, in exchange for her hand, he would prevent the crisis which Borselli had arranged to bring ruin and disgrace upon you. You will recollect the mysterious letter received by Montebruno when he was already upon his feet in the Chamber. That letter was sent by your enemy, Borselli, at Dubard's instigation, because your poor daughter had consented to sacrifice herself in order to save you. It is my duty to tell you this, your Excellency. You have been pleased to take me into your service, to treat me almost as a confidential friend, and it is my duty therefore to speak the truth and to save Miss Mary from falling the victim of this man?"

"Victim!" cried Dubard quickly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you intend to marry her, and having done so, your friend here, General Angelo Borselli, will strike his blow at His Excellency--a merciless blow, that will crush and ruin him."

"Bah!" exclaimed the Sicilian. "All this is a mere fiction! He loves your daughter himself, my dear Camillo. There is lots of gossip about it in Rome."

"During my employment in the Ministry I have kept both ears and eyes open," Macbean went on. "I know well with what devilish ingenuity you have plotted against your chief, how you have forced him deeper and deeper into financial intrigue, in order that your revelations may be the greater, and how, in order to propitiate your accomplice Dubard, you have stayed your hand until this marriage is effected."

"Basta!" cried the Sicilian. "I will not be insulted by a common employee like you!"

"Nor I!" exclaimed Dubard, his face white with pa.s.sion, as he turned to Macbean. "My affairs are no concern of yours--they concern myself and the lady who is to become my wife. I am amazed that you, of all men, should dare to come forward and make these unfounded charges against us.

Hitherto I have kept my silence, but as you have sought exposure I will speak the truth. Then your employer shall judge as to which of us is worthy of confidence, and which--"

"I make no plea for myself," declared George, quickly interrupting him.

"I merely intervene on behalf of a broken and defenceless woman--the woman you have so cleverly entrapped."

But Dubard only laughed drily, and said--

"Very well. Let His Excellency listen to you--and afterwards to me."

"Then let me speak first," cried the Englishman desperately. "Let me tell you myself the truth of the Sazarac affair."

Borselli's face fell, and Morini's countenance changed colour in an instant. Mention of that name was sufficient to cause both men quick apprehension.

"You need not do that," the Sicilian managed to say. "But I will,"

Macbean went on. "You shall hear me. I know the truth is an unwelcome one, but lest others shall tell you any garbled version of it, I will be frank and fearless with you. In the winter three years ago I was taken by Mr Morgan-Mason, whose secretary I was, to stay with General Felix Sazarac, whose wife was my employer's elder sister, the younger sister having married a Mr Fitzroy. The general, who was in command of the French garrisons on the Alpine frontier, lived at the Villa Puget, at Mentone, and at the Hotel National there was staying his friend Dubard-- the man before you. We became friendly, for the general often invited Dubard to dine at the villa, and after a time there arrived in Mentone at the same hotel an acquaintance of the count's--a young Italian gentleman of means named Solaro, who was also introduced at the Villa Puget, and who also became one of our intimate friends. Curiously enough, however, the general did not seem to care for Solaro's company, yet he frequently invited me to ride out with him, and gave me good mounts from the barracks. Well," he went on, after a slight pause, "all went merrily for over two months, until one day, when Mr Morgan-Mason had gone to Ma.r.s.eilles, the general invited me to ride with him up into the mountains to the fortress above Saint Martin Lantosque, which he had to inspect. The morning was a bright one, with all the prospects of a blazing day, and we first rode across the plain behind Mentone, and then began to ascend the rough mountain paths into the Alps. We had ridden some fourteen miles or so, when the general suddenly exclaimed, `That rascally servant of mine has forgotten my flask again!' `Never mind,' I called to him. `I have mine. I filled it with cognac and water before starting.' `That's good!' he laughed.--`We shall want a drink before long. It's going to be a blazer to-day!' And then we toiled on and on, up the steep rough paths that wound higher and higher over the mountains. Just before midday, however, the general pulled up, removed his cap, and declaring that he was thirsty, took a long pull at the flask I handed to him."