She hesitated a moment, then faltered—
“Yes, I knew him once. But what you tell me seems utterly impossible. He was the very last man to betray Italy.”
“They say that a woman induced him to prepare the plans,” remarked the Frenchman. “But how far that is true I have no idea.”
Mary’s face was paler than before. Her brows were contracted, and in her dark, luminous eyes was a look of quick determination.
“Is my father aware of all this?” she demanded.
“Undoubtedly. He, of course, must have signed the decree dismissing Solaro from the army. I believe the matter is being kept as quiet as possible, but unfortunately the Socialists have somehow obtained knowledge of the true facts, and will go to the country with the cry that Italy, under the present Cabinet, is in danger.” Then, after a slight pause, he went on, “I look upon your father as my friend, you know, signorina, therefore I think he ought to know the plot being formed against him. They intend to make certain distinct charges against him, of bribery, of receiving money from contractors who have supplied inferior goods, and of being directly responsible for the recent reverses in Abyssinia. If they do—” Pausing, he elevated his shoulders without concluding the sentence.
“But it is impossible, Count Dubard, that the man you name could have sold our military secrets?”
“You know him sufficiently well, then, to be aware of his loyalty?” sniffed her companion suspiciously.
“I know that he would never be guilty of an act of treason,” she answered quickly. “Therefore if he really has been convicted of such an offence, he must be the victim himself of some conspiracy.”
The count regarded her heated declaration as the involuntary demonstration of a bond of friendship, and looked into her eyes in undisguised wonder. She stood facing him, her white hand upon the broken marble of an ancient vase, yellow and worn smooth by time.