“I mean that matters have assumed an ugly appearance,” replied the deputy. “Even the journals who have received so much money from you are silent when they ought to be loudest in your eulogy. They are evidently awaiting the advent of their new masters.”
“Then you actually anticipate a catastrophe?” exclaimed Morini hoarsely, halting before the man who had rendered him so many valuable services—the clever, unscrupulous adventurer who had several times turned the parliamentary tide in his favour.
Vito nodded slowly, his bearded face grave and hard set.
“If what you say is really true regarding Angelo, then I am fully aware of the great peril in which I stand,” the Minister exclaimed at last, his voice faltering in his agitation. “Borselli will hesitate at nothing in order to gain power.”
“Ah, I told you so a year ago, my dear Camillo,” was the deputy’s reply. “But you would not listen. He was your friend, you said—as though there was such a thing as friendship in any of the ministries.”
“I have been deceived,” admitted the other in a low voice.
A silence fell between the pair, until the deputy suddenly said hesitatingly—
“I suppose Angelo could make some rather awkward revelations—eh?”
The Minister slowly nodded.
“H’m. I thought as much from what I gathered in Milan. He would denounce you, and by reason of his big Socialist following he would come out with clean hands. He has laid his plans well, without a doubt. Sirena, the Socialist deputy for Pesaro, told me, in confidence, all that is intended.”