The Minister of War stood undecided. Mention of his family brought home to him the terrible responsibility upon him. Ruin, exposure, condemnation, disgrace, all stared him in the face. Yet by paying what his creature demanded he could once again steer clear of the shoals of the stormy parliamentary waters, and the country would have renewed confidence in Camillo Morini.
He knew that he was—as indeed he had been for years—entirely at the mercy of this man whom he had trained as his secret agent both in the Camera and out of it.
“Well,” he answered at last in a deep, hoarse, broken voice, “and suppose I pay? What then?”
“Then I shall do my best,” was Vito’s response. “I can’t, of course, be certain that I shall succeed, but as the groups require my influence in another quarter, they will probably render me assistance in this.”
Morini was pacing the room again. His appearance was that of a man filled with apprehension. He saw that the situation was most critical, and recognised that ruin was before him. He glanced across at his writing-table, when his lips compressed and a strange, half-triumphant smile overspread his grey countenance.
“Very well,” he exclaimed, and his sigh ran through the great old chamber. “I suppose you must have the money to throw to those howling dogs. Call at the Ministry to-morrow and you shall have a draft.”
“For sixty thousand,” said the deputy quickly. “Better be on the safe side. I shall have to distribute money freely this time, you know.”
But the Minister refused, knowing that the extra ten thousand lire would go into Vito’s pocket. Then they argued, long and hotly, Ricci, the accomplished blackmailer, refusing openly to lend his influence for any less sum, until at length the man who was so completely in his power was reluctantly compelled to yield—for the sake of his wife and Mary, he said in sheer desperation.
“And now that you are again reposing confidence in me, my dear friend,” said the deputy, “let me give you a word of warning.”
“Speak. I am all attention.”