She sighed, and tears welled again in her dark brown eyes. The general at her side was no woman’s man, but even he became affected at this meeting.
“They allege that you sold to France a copy of the mobilisation scheme,” she went on. “They say that I purposely locked you in my father’s library at Rome for three hours in order that you might have access to the secret documents which were in a drawer in his writing-table.”
The prisoner, smiling bitterly, answered—
“Let them allege whatever it pleases them; they cannot make my unjust punishment greater than it is. You yourself know that the charge is an unjust one—and my general knows that I would never betray Italy!”
“But to whom do you attribute this ingenious plot by which you have been made the scapegoat of someone else’s offence?” asked Mary, looking straight into his deep-sunken eyes. “That the plans of the Tresenta as well as the copy of the mobilisation scheme have reached the French Intelligence Department is proved beyond doubt. Our secret service in Paris has ascertained that.”
“I have enemies—bitter ones,” he answered in a strange tone, his eyes fixed upon her. “They fear me, and have taken this course in order to close my mouth—in order to prevent me making certain revelations that would effect their ruin.”
“But who are they?” she demanded. “The general has brought me here on purpose to put this question to you. If we are aware of all the facts, we may be able, after all, to rescue you from the horrors of Gorgona.”
The pale-faced man shook his unkempt head sorrowfully, his lips pressed together, his eyes upon hers.
“No. You can never secure my release,” he declared, with despair. “They dare not give me my liberty for their own sakes. Jules Dubard and that Englishman George Macbean will take good care that I never come forth to denounce them.”
“George Macbean?” she gasped open-mouthed, all the colour fading from her cheeks. “Do you know him? Is he actually one of those who is responsible for this?”