She nodded.
And as she looked into his dark, well-cut features in the half-light she fancied she discerned a curious look, half of pity and half of surprise.
“I hope you’ll be happy,” he remarked in a hard voice. “I always thought you would marry Solaro—poor devil! Do you remember him?”
“Remember!” she echoed. “Yes; I recollect everything. You may well say ‘poor devil.’ He has been convicted of being a traitor—of selling army secrets to France.”
“I know—I know,” answered her companion quickly. “We had all the papers concerning the charges through the Embassy, and I am aware of all the facts. My own idea is that he’s innocent, yet how can it be proved? He was betrayed by some heartless woman in Bologna, it seems. She made all sorts of charges against him.”
“She lied!” cried Mary quickly. “He is innocent. I know he is, and some day I hope to be able to prove it.”
“Ah, I wish I could help you!” was his fervent declaration. “He was my friend, you know. Perhaps the real truth may be known some day, but until then we can only wait, and he must bear his unjust punishment.”
“But it is a crying scandal that he should have been degraded when he is innocent!” declared the daughter of the Minister of War.
“Your father, no doubt, ordered the most searching inquiry. It is strange that, if he is really innocent, his innocence has not been proved.”
“You are quite right,” she said. “That very fact is always puzzling me.”