“But he’s a dangerous man,” she declared, with quick apprehension. “You probably don’t know so much of him as I do. He would betray his own father if it suited his purpose.”
“I know,” laughed the man drily. “I’ve heard sufficient stories concerning him to be quite well aware of his unscrupulous character. It is a thousand pities that he is an associate of your father’s.”
“Ah yes!” she sighed. “But how can it be avoided? They are in office in the same ministry, and are bound to be in constant touch with each other. The only thing I fear is that he has, by some intrigue, contrived to get my father in his power,” she said confidentially.
“How? What causes you to suspect such a thing?” he inquired quickly.
“Because once or twice of late I have noticed how when he has called in Rome and in Florence my father has been disinclined to see him, and that after the fellow’s departure he has seemed very thoughtful and preoccupied. More than once, too, I’ve heard high words between them when they’ve been closeted together in the study in Rome. I once heard him threaten my father,” she added.
“Threaten him!” cried her companion quickly. “What did the man say? Tell me.” All that the girl was telling him was confirming what, in his heart, he already suspected.
“Well,” she said, in a low voice of confidence, “it was early one morning, after the last court ball, and he had driven home with us. Afterwards my father had taken him to the study, and I had said good-night, when, on going to my room half an hour later, I found my maid very unwell. Therefore I went down again, intending to get from the study the key of the medicine cupboard, when I heard voices within, and naturally stopped to listen. I heard my father say distinctly, ‘I won’t. I’ll never be a party to such a piece of audacious robbery—why, it’s treason—treason, do you hear? No, Angelo, not even you can induce me to betray my country!’ Then in reply I heard the general say, ‘Very well. I have told you the course I intend to adopt. Your refusal places me in a critical situation, and I shall therefore save myself.’ ‘At my expense?’ asked my father in a low, hoarse voice. ‘Yes,’ the man replied. ‘I shall certainly not fall without an effort to retain my place, my liberty, depend upon it. And when the truth is out regarding the Sazarac affair, this high moral standard that you are now adopting will avail you but little.’ Then there was a silence. At last my father asked in a tone of reproach, ‘You actually intend to betray me, Angelo?—you, who owe your rank, your position, everything to me! Tell me, you are surely joking?’ ‘No,’ replied the fellow, ‘I am in earnest. You must act as I have suggested, or take the consequences’?”
“You are certain—quite certain—that Borselli mentioned the Sazarac affair?” asked the Frenchman, in deep earnestness and surprise. “I mean that you distinctly heard the name of Sazarac mentioned?”
“Distinctly. Why?”
But the Frenchman made no reply. How could he tell her? What she had related revealed to him a strange and startling truth—a truth which held him amazed, aghast.