I saw that she held her breath. Her face was instantly blanched to the lips.
“Because last night I scratched my hand,” she replied.
“Please remove it, and allow me to see the scratch.”
“I refuse,” she cried angrily.
Next instant, at a sign from the Marchese, Vivarini and I seized her hand, when her husband, roughly tearing off the white kid glove, examined her palm.
He stood aghast.
“Dio!” gasped the horrified man. “The brand is here. You, Elena, my wife, you are the spy.”
“Guilio,” shrieked the unhappy woman, flinging herself frantically upon her knees before him. “Forgive me. Santa Madonna! Forgive me!”
“I may forgive you, Elena,” replied the Admiral, in a low, stern voice, “but Italy will never forgive.”
Then, turning abruptly, he left the room, the Captain following. But as he passed out two agents of the Italian secret police passed in, and a few seconds later the wretched woman found herself under arrest.