“If the truth regarding General Sazarac is out, my dear Angelo,” he said quite calmly, “then you must forgive me for suspecting that the catastrophe is due to your own indiscretion.”
“Ah, my dear friend, there you are entirely wrong!” the other declared in a low, intense voice. “A man whom you know in England is well aware of the whole of the facts.”
“And who is he, pray?” inquired the Minister, still preserving an outward calm that was perfect.
“The young Englishman George Macbean—the man who was staying with Sinclair of Thornby.”
“Macbean?” slowly repeated His Excellency, gradually recalling to his memory the young Englishman whom Mary had introduced to him upon his own lawn. “Ah, of course! I recollect. He is Sinclair’s nephew, and secretary to that fellow Morgan-Mason who came to Rome to see us about provisioning.”
“The same. He knows everything.”
The Minister was silent. His brows were knit. He recollected Macbean quite well, and wondered whether what Borselli was telling him were the actual truth. Since Vito Ricci had revealed the amazing cunning with which the Under-Secretary was working, he naturally mistrusted him.
“Well, and what does it matter?” asked Morini, still quite cool.
“Matter?” gasped the other. “Matter? Why, if he reveals what he knows it will mean ruin for us both—ruin?”
“You have expressed fear several times, my dear Angelo,” laughed the Minister, leaning easily with his back to the table. “For myself, I entertain no fear. How did you discover that he held this knowledge?”