“And what did the Frenchman say?” inquired Borselli. “Oh, he was very polite,” she laughed, blushing slightly. “We walked about the garden for nearly half an hour; for he was a pleasant man, who spoke Italian exceedingly well—evidently an officer.”
“Most of the men in the French secret service are recruited from the army or the detective police,” he remarked. “But I intend that Italy, like Russia, shall in future rely upon the shrewdness of clever women like yourself. This Frenchman said nothing regarding Solaro?”
“He merely remarked that he supposed the captain trusted me implicitly, and I, of course, replied in the affirmative. He wrote to me from the Hôtel National in Lucerne, making the appointment in the Montagnola, indicating a certain seat, which showed that he was well acquainted with Bologna.”
“Did he mention me?”
“No. He urged me, however, to deny all knowledge of the mysterious packet if taxed with receiving it. From that I concluded that he was in ignorance of how the whole affair had been arranged.”
“Of course,” he answered, with a laugh. “It would never do for France to learn our motives. We allow them to have the secrets of Tresenta because we have other ends in view. What they are you will know later.”
“And in the meantime Felice Solaro is dismissed the army in disgrace?”
The sallow-faced man nodded. He did not tell her that he had been sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment, for he knew how soft-hearted women are towards the innocent.
“Do you know,” she said presently, “I have a suspicion which I think I ought to tell you. It is that the address upon the envelope which contained the packet of papers was not in Captain Solaro’s own handwriting.”
He looked quickly into her face, frowning slightly and saying—