Behind the Throne

“Fifty thousand francs of that money Borselli handed back to me,” the Minister admitted.

“And he kept the remainder himself,” declared Solaro. “This letter is in his handwriting – and is in itself evidence that he instigated the general’s death, and that this man, who is his accomplice, carried it out so cleverly that the whole of the evidence pointed to Macbean. Indeed, this is proved by recent events, and by the manner in which the pair have sought to close my mouth regarding the ugly affair. Last summer I was suddenly arrested, and was amazed to discover how very neatly the man Dubard, whom I thought my friend, had had me watched in Paris and in Bologna, had bogus plans of the Tresenta prepared and sent to Filoména Nodari, and how these and other documents – one purporting to be the mobilisation scheme itself – passed through that woman’s hands into those of a French agent. Evidence – foul lies, all of it – was given against me; I was condemned as a traitor – I, the man who had copied all the plans of France in the interests of my own country – and then I realised how cleverly Borselli and Dubard, the ex-agent of France, were acting in conjunction, and that whoever was guilty of poor Sazarac’s assassination it certainly was not the Englishman. I had, before my arrest, mentioned the death of Sazarac casually to Dubard, and inquired of the whereabouts of Macbean. It was this remark of mine which apparently aroused his suspicions, and which caused both he and Borselli to secure my imprisonment for a twofold reason: first, to ensure my silence; and secondly, so as to give the Socialists a weapon by which they might hound your Excellency from office for countenancing a traitor. This was the only way in which your Excellency’s popularity and power could be undermined; but so craftily did they go to work, and so cleverly was every detail of the conspiracy thought out, even to the opening of your safe at San Donato with a key made from the impression of the original key taken by Borselli two years before. You made away with the key, hoping to conceal the evidences of your peculations; but their ingenuity was simply marvellous, for they were playing with the safety and prosperity of a kingdom.”

“But General Borselli asked me recently to induce my father to release you,” said Mary.

“In order to still further incite the popular feeling against His Excellency. He probably believed that I dared not denounce him as the instigator of the assassination of Sazarac, and that with my release his coup could be effected against your father after your marriage with his accomplice. It is, indeed, intended to strike the blow at the first sitting of the Chamber next month.”

“Then I think we are now fully prepared to combat it,” remarked the tall, grey-haired Minister in a cool tone, as he glanced at the Sicilian. “When I received the fifty thousand francs of the sum which was to have been paid from the secret service fund to General Sazarac, I was led to believe that, owing to a certain plan not being forthcoming, only half the sum had been paid to him. I had no knowledge of a tragedy until long afterwards, when, to my horror, I discovered for myself that there had been some foul play, and that I was morally responsible as an accessory.”

“I am not to blame altogether,” declared the Frenchman desperately. “Borselli sent me the cognac from Rome already prepared, and according to his directions I substituted the bottle in the Englishman’s room and at the same time abstracted the general’s flask from his holster. I also concealed, at Angelo’s suggestion, the banker’s draft in Macbean’s writing-case.”

“You scoundrel!” cried George, turning upon the white-faced criminal whom his well-beloved had so narrowly escaped. “And you, Borselli, have sent your spy, that woman Nodari, to investigate Mr Morgan-Mason’s papers because you fear he holds something that incriminates you?”

“Silence!” cried the Minister, holding up his hand. “There must be no recriminations here in my house. I have been misled by Borselli as to this man’s position and antecedents. The wedding will not take place, after these scandalous revelations, but there is still one duty before me, as Minister of War,” and turning to his writing-table he took two sheets of paper, and upon each he scribbled some hurried words. One he handed to Borselli, who glanced at it and threw it from him with an imprecation.

It was his dismissal from the office of Under-Secretary of War.

The other, which he handed to Solaro, caused him to cry aloud with joy, for it was his reinstatement in the army and a declaration of his innocence of the crime of which he had been charged.

Then Solaro unlocked the door, and turning to the Sicilian and Dubard, who were standing together pale, crestfallen, and ashamed, he said —

“Go, you pair of assassins. Don’t either of you put foot in Italy again, or I’ll take it upon myself to prosecute you for your vile plot and my own false imprisonment. Then, at your trial, the whole affair will come out. You hear?”

“Yes!” muttered Dubard, with flashing eyes. “We hear your threats.”

And in silence both the elegant bridegroom and his dark-faced friend passed from the study and out of the house, never to re-enter it.

Then, when they had gone, Mary, a pale, tragic figure in her bridal dress, flung herself into George’s ready arms, crying —

“You have saved me – saved me!” and she burst into tears of joy, the outpourings of an overburdened heart.

For the first time Camillo Morini guessed the truth, yet then and there, before Felice Solaro, whose statement had liberated both of them, George Macbean openly confessed his great passion for her, a declaration of purest and strongest affection, of which she, by her own action, had already acknowledged reciprocation.

And so the Minister, on recovering from his surprise, gladly gave the hand of his daughter to the gallant, upright man who had placed himself in such jeopardy in order to save her and to unmask the conspirators, while Felice Solaro was the first to offer the pair his hearty congratulations. Hand in hand they stood, content in each other’s love.

In order to preserve appearances, it was arranged that Mary should feign a sudden illness to necessitate the postponement of the wedding, and while there was great disappointment among the guests and the curious crowds of villagers, there was, in secret, a great rejoicing in Madame Morini’s little boudoir when the glad news was revealed to her.

The pealing bells were stopped. Mary had thrown off her wedding-gown merrily, and when she tossed her orange-blossoms into the grate of the boudoir, she said to George laughingly —

“When we marry privately in London next month, I shall require no white satin – a travelling gown will be sufficient, will it not?”

“Yes, dearest,” he said, kissing her fondly upon the lips, now that she was really his very own. “The dress does not matter when the union of our hearts is so firm and true. You know how fondly and passionately I love you, and how I have suffered in silence at the thought of your terrible sacrifice.”

“I know,” she answered softly, looking up into his eyes trustingly. “I know, George – only too well! Ah! you cannot think how happy I am, now that it is all past – and you are mine?” And then she raised her sweet face and kissed him of her own accord upon the cheek.

Chapter Forty One

A Woman’s Freedom

Within a month of the abandoned wedding at Orton, Mary Morini and George Macbean were married quietly at St. James’s Church, in Piccadilly, the Rev. Basil Sinclair assisting, and Billy Grenfell, as full of his bluff humour as ever, acting as best man, while among the various handsome presents the happy pair received was an acceptable cheque from Mr Morgan-Mason for ten thousand pounds – the sum he had offered to George for information as to the actual means by which his brother-in-law met with his death.

The millionaire was determined to place the assassins on their trial, and notwithstanding Morini’s efforts to preserve secrecy regarding the affair, he actually gave information to the Chief of Police in Mentone. By some secret means, Angelo Borselli obtained knowledge of this fact, and on the very morning of George’s wedding day he was found in a room in an obscure hotel in Brussels, quite dead, having committed suicide by swallowing some arsenical poison, probably the same as that used in the cognac which caused the unfortunate general’s tragic end.

Felice Solaro was soon gazetted major, and is now transferred to the gaiety of Naples. As for Dubard, he did not long enjoy his freedom, for he was arrested as a traitor by the French police while passing through Bordeaux, and is now spending the remainder of his days on the penal island of New Caledonia.

George Macbean and his charming wife still live in Rome, and all in the Eternal City know them well by sight. The Cavaliere Macbean has been promoted to a very high and responsible position in the Ministry of War, but last year Camillo Morini, owing to failing health, resigned office, greatly to the regret of his new sovereign, King Victor Emmanuel, and of the gallant Italian people at large.

But before resigning he endeavoured by every means in his power to atone for the peculations of his earlier career, and by selling his palace and other properties, he paid back the whole of the money he had appropriated.

San Donato, the old-world estate above Florence, is, however, still his, and there, enjoying the greatest fame perhaps of any living Italian, he is spending with his wife the evening of his days.

Orton Court is still rented by him, and each summer they go there with Mary and her husband. But the village is still mystified why Miss Mary did not marry the Frenchman, and whether, after all, there was not a scene on that memorable day when the wedding was so abruptly postponed.

But in her fine dark eyes they now see the light of perfect love and sweet contentment, and they know too well the sterling worth and kindly heart of the man who is her husband.

In Orton village in summer, however, perhaps the most popular and important personage of any is the little round-faced, chubby boy, who so often sits between the happy pair when on bright afternoons they drive out in the smart victoria.

Much as she prefers England, Madame Macbean is compelled, on account of her husband’s official position, to still move in Roman society, where, for her great personal beauty and the sweetness of her character, she is the most admired of women in the Quirinale set, that bright and brilliant circle of Italy’s bluest blood – “The World behind the Throne.”