“It is to be hoped that he can, but I confess I doubt it very much,” was his slow answer. “Downfall seems imminent. Indeed, a friend of mine, whom I met the other day in Biffi’s café, in Milan, was discussing it openly. It seems that our French secret service has been at work on your Alpine frontier, and that the plans of the new fortress at Tresenta have been sold by one of the officers of the garrison. Out of this the Opposition intend to make capital, by charging your father with neglect, even connivance at the traitorous dealings with France, and thereby hounding him from office.”
“But it is unjust!” cried the girl wildly. “It is disgraceful! If the spies of France have been successful, it is surely not my father’s fault, but the fault of the officer who prepared and sold them. What is his name?”
“I hear it is Solaro.”
“Solaro!” she gasped hoarsely. “Not Captain Felice Solaro, of the Alpine Regiment?”
“Yes, signorina, that was the name.”
She stood staring at him, utterly amazed and mystified. Felice Solaro!—a traitor!
“But it is impossible!” she declared quickly. “There must surely be some mistake!”
“I heard it on the very best authority,” was the young Frenchman’s calm answer. “A court-martial has, it seems, been held with closed doors, and as a result the man Solaro has been dismissed and sentenced to imprisonment for a term of fifteen years.”
“Dismissed the army!” she exclaimed blankly. “Then the court-martial found him guilty?”
“Certainly. But did you know the man?”