Читать книгу: «Sant of the Secret Service: Some Revelations of Spies and Spying», страница 11

Chapter Twenty
A Message from the Herrengasse

I have here put into narrative form a number of astonishing facts taken from information read and testimony given at the court-martial subsequently held upon the guilty parties. The facts which I assisted in establishing will, I believe, be found of considerable interest to readers as further revealing the subtle methods of the enemy.

For obvious reasons I have been compelled to disguise certain names so as not to bring eternal dishonour upon a great and noble family.

“And if I revealed the truth to your dear affectionate husband?” whispered the soft-voiced, well-dressed Italian. “What then – eh, Elena?”

“Madonna mia! No,” cried the dark-haired, handsome young woman, who sat at her tea-table in a great, elegantly furnished salon in one of those old fourteenth-century palazzi close to the port of Sarzana, the Italian naval station on the Adriatic.

It was a bright afternoon in the summer of 1916; Sarzana, the old city in Ferrara, to which I had gone with Madame Gabrielle, a lazy, sun-blanched place, with its white houses and green sun-shutters, had of late been electrified into naval activity against those hated Tedeschi, those Austrians which every Italian had been taught to hate at his mother’s knee.

Things were going well with Italy. On that day the Corriere had published a long dispatch from General Cadorna, reporting a smashing defeat of the Austrians in the Alps, and an advance in the direction of Trieste. The whole kingdom of Italy, from Ravenna to Reggio, was in a state of highest enthusiasm, and in Sarzana the excited populace were agog in the cafés and in the narrow, old-world streets.

That most elegant fourteenth-century salon, with its faded tapestries and fine old portraits, in which the woman was seated with her visitor, was the same great room in which the Doge Francesco Bissolo, of Venice, assembled the famous Council of Ten, when they consulted with Malatesta after the Battle of Padua in 1405. The Bissolo Palace, the dark, almost prison-like walls of which rose sheer from the canal within a stone’s throw of the great naval dockyard, had little changed through five centuries. Its exterior was grim and forbidding, with windows barred with iron, its massive doors, which opened upon the narrow mediaeval street, heavily studded with nails and strengthened with iron.

Within, however, while most of its antique charm had been preserved, it was the acme of luxury and taste, containing many priceless works of art, magnificent tapestries, and the famous collection of ancient arms belonging to its present owner, the Marchese Guilio Michelozzo-Alfani, whose pretty young wife was that afternoon giving tea to a visitor.

“No!” the woman exclaimed, in a low, intense whisper. “No, Carlo, you would never do that. I know that once I treated you badly, and I was your enemy then. But that is long ago. To-day I am your friend. Guilio must never know the truth. In his position as Admiral of the Port it would mean ruin for him if the truth were revealed that I am an Austrian, and hence an enemy.”

“Yes. I agree that it would be very awkward for you, my dear Elena, if the truth ever leaked out,” remarked the thin, sallow-faced, middle-aged man, as he sipped the cup of tea, in English fashion, which she had handed him. About his lips was a strange hardness, even though his friendship was so apparent.

“But you alone know, my dear Carlo, and you will never give me away. We were old friends in Budapest – ah! I wish to forget those days – before I married Guilio,” she remarked softly, with a bitter smile.

“My dear Elena, don’t think that I’ve called to threaten you,” exclaimed Carlo Corradini, the well-dressed Italian, who lived such a gay existence in Rome, and who was so well known in the cosmopolitan life of the Corso and the Pincio. “Why should I? I am here, in Sarzana, upon a secret mission – in order to speak with you.”

“Why?”

“Well,” – as he paused he looked the young wife of the Italian Admiral full in the face – “well, because, though your country is at war with Italy to-day, Austria has still friends in Italy, just as Germany has.”

“Ah! This war is all so horrible,” declared the Marchesa, with a slight shudder. “You Italians hate every Austrian with a fierce and deadly hatred.”

“Pardon me, my dear Elena, but you Austrians hate us just as fiercely,” he laughed. “Where is Guilio?”

“At his office. He will not be back until seven. He always goes to the Club to take his vermouth there.”

Corradini glanced at the door to make certain it was closed; then, bending across the little table with its splendid silver service, he whispered:

“I have a secret message for you – from somebody you know.”

“A secret message – what?” asked the young Marchesa, opening her fine eyes widely.

“From the Herrengasse, number seven.”

“From Vienna?” she asked, in surprise, for the address he had given her was the bureau of the Austro-Hungarian Council of Ministers.

He nodded mysteriously, and with a grin said:

“From your old friend Schreyer.”

She drew a long breath and went pale for a second. Mention of that name recalled to her a remembrance of the past – of the days when she was a dancer at the Raimund Theatre in Vienna, and when Count Schreyer had, after a brief acquaintance, offered her his hand. But she had disliked him because he was such a cold, harsh bureaucrat, who had at that time occupied a high position at the Ministry of the Interior, and who possessed, as she once told a friend, “a heart of granite.”

Elena’s life-story had been a rather curious one, but, after all, not much out of the commonplace. The daughter of a poor Austrian musician in the orchestra at the Weiner Burger Theatre, in Vienna, and of an Italian mother, she had learned Italian from her birth, and on going to Italy to fulfil an engagement at the Politeama, at Livorno, she had posed as an Italian, though hitherto she had lived all her life in Austria, and had been taught to hate her dead mother’s race.

As an Italian, she had met, and afterwards married, the middle-aged Marchese Michelozzo-Alfani, at that time a Vice-Admiral of the Fleet. For three years prior to the war her life had been quiet and uneventful. The summer she spent out at Antignano, on the seashore, three miles from Livorno – or Leghorn, as the English call it – where they rented a big white villa amid the vines and olives; in spring, on the Lake of Garda; in autumn, in Florence; and winter, in Rome.

From his early days the Marchese had been a most popular naval officer, who had fought in Abyssinia and in Tripoli, and, being a favourite at the Court of the Quirinale, promotion had come to him rapidly. Before his marriage he had endeavoured to practise economy, in order to redeem the fortunes of his ancient family; but now that his wife Elena proved so extravagant, he found himself getting deeper into debt each day.

His appointment to Sarzana at the outbreak of the war had enabled him to return to the ancestral palace, which had passed from the Bissolo family to that of the Michelozzo in the sixteenth century, but which had for a good number of years been closed and in the hands of caretakers. His was one of the most important naval commands in Italy, and the Austrians were viewing that naval base with increased anxiety, it being so very close to both Trieste and Fiume. Admiral Michelozzo-Alfani was one of the youngest of the officers of his grade in the Italian Navy.

Many raids he had made upon Austrian ports on the Adriatic, and Ragusa, Zara, Sebenico and other places had suffered severe bombardment by his “mosquito” fleet; therefore, at the Admiralty in Vienna his great activity was being frequently discussed.

“I see, my dear Elena, you have not forgotten your friend the Count,” laughed the sallow-faced Italian across the table presently. “Neither has he forgotten you.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, because he spoke to me about you only three weeks ago.”

“Three weeks ago!” echoed the Marchesa. “How could you have met?”

Carlo Corradini grinned very mysteriously.

“Well – I was in Vienna three weeks ago – that is all.”

“You in Vienna!” she gasped. “Are you, then, a friend of my country?” she asked, in a low, hoarse whisper.

“Why, of course,” he replied. “You are Austrian in all but name. I am a born Italian, but – well, I am a friend of Austria.”

“A well-paid friend – eh?”

“Yes, just as you may be – if you will. The Count is still your friend, and he greatly admires you. It is his one regret that you preferred the Marchese Guilio. He is a good fellow is the Count. He is now prime favourite with the Emperor, and he still remains unmarried. Elena, he thinks always of you, and only you.”

The handsome Elena shrugged her shoulders. The man who had called upon her quite unexpectedly she had first met five years ago in Budapest. He was then a poor Italian composer of music. Yet now, in mysterious circumstances, he was, she knew, in possession of ample funds, and lived in an elegant flat close to the Piazza Colonna in Rome. They exchanged glances, whereupon he settled himself to speak more openly to her, and to give her a verbal message from her old admirer at the Herrengasse.

Carlo Corradini began by laughing at her patriotic devotion to her husband’s country.

“Of course Guilio is a most excellent fellow,” he said. “But, alas! he is merely fighting a lost cause. The Central Powers are bound to win, and it is now for you to assist your own country. Schreyer appeals to you. He knows of your difficulty in meeting that last loan which old Levitski, the Jew, in Milan, made to you a year ago, and – ”

“How does he know that?” she inquired, in quick surprise.

“My dear Elena, how does Austria know so many secrets of her enemies?” he laughed. “Schreyer is now head of that department of the Secret Service which deals with affairs here in Italy, and – ”

“And you, an Italian, are one of his agents,” she interrupted, in a low, meaning voice.

He bowed in the affirmative in silence. Then, after a few moments, he remarked, in a strange, meaning tone, his black, penetrating eyes fixed upon her: “I know the secret of your nationality, and your friendship with Count Schreyer – and you know mine. So, my dear Elena, we have nothing to fear from each other. Do you understand?”

“I don’t understand. You surely are not hinting that I should betray my husband’s secrets – the naval secrets of Italy?”

The dark, smooth-tongued man from Rome smiled quietly, as he answered:

“That, my dear Elena, is exactly the message I bear to you from Schreyer. It is known that your husband tells you a good deal. You have whispered secrets to your friends, the Comtesse Landrini, and also the Renata Pozzi. If to them, then why not to me – eh?”

“Never!” she cried. “I have married an Italian, and I am now Italian.”

“But the money. It will be useful. Levitski must be paid in full in eight weeks’ time. Seventy-two thousand lire. That is the sum, I think? If you fail him this time, he will take his revenge and tell the truth.”

“He does not know.”

“But Schreyer will tell him.”

“What?” she gasped, starting from her chair. “Has the Count told you that?”

“Well, he has not exactly said so in words,” was her visitor’s reply.

“He only hinted at it, and sent me straight to see you. I had to travel by way of Holland and London – quite a long journey.”

“Then you shall tell him that I refuse,” she answered. “I will never betray Italy, and more especially through Guilio, who believes in my patriotism, and never dreams that I am anything but an Italian born and bred.”

“That makes it all the easier. He will never suspect you,” remarked the sallow-faced man, with a sinister smile upon his lips.

“I tell you,” she cried angrily, “I decline to enter into it at all. I – ”

The door suddenly opened as she spoke, and there entered the Admiral, a smart, good-looking, middle-aged man in uniform with decorations, whose appearance was so unexpected that they both started.

“Decline what, my dear?” he asked sharply. “What is the matter?”

“Oh, nothing, Guilio,” she laughed lightly. “You recollect Signor Corradini, who used to come to see us in Livorno?”

“Why, of course,” said the Admiral, as the two men bowed to each other.

A lie rose readily to her lips, and she said:

“Well, Signor Corradini has called in order to try and induce me to take part in the Princess di Paliano’s tableaux vivants at Bologna, in aid of the Croce-Rosso. But I am far too busy with hospital work here in Sarzana, so I have declined.

“Yes, dearest, you are far too busy. I am always afraid Elena will overwork herself, my dear Corradini. I am nervous lest she should have a breakdown.”

The woman and her tempter exchanged meaning glances.

“Everyone knows how intensely patriotic is the Marchesa, and we all admire her for her hard work in the cause of charity. My friend the Princess, however, asked me to call here and solicit her help, and in consequence I have done so.”

The Admiral thanked him warmly, for the Princess di Paliano’s exertions in war-work were well known throughout Italy.

Elena’s husband sipped the tea she handed him, and, after chatting with their visitor for a further half-hour, the Admiral suddenly asked:

“What are you doing down in Rome nowadays?”

“Oh, of course, we are all working hard. I am secretary in a department in the Ministry of War, the department which is in touch with France and England concerning munitions.”

He spoke the truth. Carlo Corradini held a very important position in the Ministry, even though, as we afterwards discovered, he had in secret long been an enemy agent. This latter fact, Guilio Michelozzo-Alfani never dreamed. Like all others, he never imagined that Carlo, hating the Tedeschi so fiercely as he did, could be in secret their ingenious and unscrupulous friend.

The Marchese himself was a true-born Italian, one of the ancient aristocracy of the north. Those who know Italy, know quite well the stern and honest patriotism of her sons from count to contadino, and of the fierce, relentless hatred of every Austrian.

Presently the well-dressed civilian functionary rose, clicked his heels, and in the elegant Italian manner raised his hostess’s hand, and, kissing it, wished her addio.

The dark eyes of the Admiral’s young wife met his in that second, and they understood.

Five minutes later Carlo Corradini was hurrying along the Via Vittorio Emanuele, the principal street in Sarzana, in the grey evening light; then, turning to the left, he gained the Passeggio, which faced the Adriatic, that long promenade lined with its dusty, wind-swept tamarisks, where by day the cicale, harbinger of heat, chirped their monotonous chant.

Corradini’s visit to Sarzana proved to be a protracted one. His excuse was that he had been sent from the Ministry upon a special mission, and, in consequence, he had preferred to rent a little flat on the Passeggio than to live in the Albergo Stella d’Italia. One day, at six o’clock, he met, at a very obscure restaurant called The Vapore, a certain Countess Malipiero, a middle-aged, ugly, but quite wealthy woman, who lived near the Santa Maria della Salute, and who was a great personal friend of the Marchesa.

The pair dined together at the popular little establishment, eating a simple dish of paste al pomidoro, for which the trattoria was noted, a costoletta and a piece of stracchino to follow. But over that simple meal the pair remained in serious consultation, while not far from them sat the good-looking but unobtrusive Madame Gabrielle Soyez, for the pair were already under suspicion, though we had as yet no reliable evidence to justify interference. Afterwards the pair walked together as far as the Piazza Grande, and there parted, the spy of Austria smiling as he went along the noisy street towards the sea.

Chapter Twenty One
The Admiral’s Secret

Three weeks passed.

Old Sarzana has ever been a city of black conspiracy and clever intrigue. In those glorious days of the Venetian Republic persons of both sexes who were antagonistic, or in any way obstacles to the carrying-out of the secret plans of the Council of Ten, were “by accident” secretly poisoned or openly “assassinated,” as is shown in the many reports which even to-day repose in the secret archives of the Palace of the Doges at Venice. As mediaeval Sarzana was a veritable hot-bed of intrigue in those days when Venice ruled the Adriatic, so were desperate plots afoot in the yesterday of Cadorna’s triumphant advance into Austria. Enemy plots and counter-plots were hatched in those darkened houses upon the silent waterways, or by the open sea. One of them I now reveal for the first time.

Truth to tell, the Marchesa Elena had been forced, by the elegant, insidious Corradini, to accept traitorous service in the pay of Austria. Their usual meeting-place was in the old church of St. Antonio, which at vespers was always crowded by the devout, who, in the days of war, prayed for Italy’s victory. Sarzana had always been one of the most pious cities in Italy, and each evening the splendid old Cathedral was crowded. And in that crowd the pair met – kneeling side by side to whisper, and again near them knelt Madame Gabrielle.

In all Sarzana no woman worked harder at the great war-hospital established in the Communal Palace than the popular wife of the Admiral of the Port.

The Marchese, the most influential and delightful man in Sarzana, was, as everyone knew, the author of the many raids upon the enemy which had from time to time been carried out. Well known, too, it was, how the “mosquito” fleet of destroyers, piloted by him, had only a month ago entered the great harbour of Cattaro, opposite Rimini, and had sunk four big Austrian battleships at anchor there – four of the biggest ships of Austria’s navy.

About this time the wealthy Countess Malipiero – who was nowadays Elena’s most intimate friend, and who was constantly at the Admiral’s table – purchased a big sea-going motor-launch, a quiet, harmless old fisherman called Beppo, well known in Sarzana, being placed as skipper. Before the war, the Countess had, in secret, been in very poor circumstances, but owing to the death of a relative – so she explained – she had been left a substantial legacy.

One evening, as the Admiral and his wife were about to finish dinner tête-à-tête, the manservant announced that Captain Vivarini, the second in command, had called and desired to speak with his chief very urgently.

“Show the Captain to the study,” said the Marchese, as he rose at once and passed along to his cosy little den which overlooked the port.

Elena, instantly upon the alert, and suspecting that something unusual had happened, waited until the Captain had been conducted to her husband’s room, and then she crept silently along to the door, where she knew she could overhear the conversation, having listened there several times before.

On tiptoe she approached noiselessly over the soft Turkey carpet, and, placing her ear to the door, was enabled to hear news.

In brief, it was to the effect that one of the newest Austrian submarines had been captured intact, with officers and crew, off the Point of Cortellazo.

“The submarine Number 117 left Fiume only yesterday, according to its commander, whom I have interrogated,” the Captain reported.

“Benissimo!” exclaimed the Admiral, much gratified. “Then the enemy will not yet know of its capture. In the meantime we must act. The submarine belongs to Fiume, therefore, my dear Vivarini, she must return to Fiume.”

“Go back?” echoed the Captain.

“Yes. She must sail again to-night with an Italian crew,” said the Admiral. “She will enter Fiume harbour flying her own flag, but at the same time she will discharge torpedoes at as many of the vessels of war lying there as she can. You understand?”

“Santa Vergine! What a plan,” exclaimed the Captain enthusiastically. “Most excellent, Signor Marchese.”

“All must be done in strictest secrecy,” said the other, lowering his voice. “Not a single word must leak out, for there can be no doubt that there are spies here in Sarzana. News of our intentions gets across the Adriatic in an astounding manner sometimes. Not a syllable must be known, either regarding our capture or our intentions. Number 117 must return to-night.”

“Not a whisper,” the Captain agreed, whereupon the Marchesa, a tall, slim figure in a dinner-gown of carnation pink, and wearing a velvet bow of the same shade in her hair, slipped back again to the salon, where she awaited her husband, pretending to read.

“Well, Captain Vivarini,” she exclaimed, greeting their visitor merrily as the two men entered. “Some new development, I suppose, eh?”

“Yes, Marchesa,” replied the handsome naval captain, bowing low over her hand with that peculiar Italian courtesy. “A little confidential matter,” and he laughed. Then, after a cigarette and a tiny glass of green certosa, the Admiral and the chief of his staff left.

As soon as they had gone, Elena rushed to her room, slipped off her dining-gown, and, putting on a tweed skirt and blouse, hurried from the house.

She slipped along the dark, narrow side street, until suddenly she emerged on to the moonlit promenade, and ascended the dimly lit stone stairs which led to the room occupied by Carlo Corradini. In response to her ring, the spy of Austria at once admitted her.

“Why, Elena! This is a surprise. What has happened?” he asked eagerly.

The Admiral’s wife passed into the little sitting-room, and, without seating herself, revealed hastily what was intended, adding: “I must return home at once or Guilio may wonder where I am.”

“What a plot!” exclaimed the dark-haired traitor. “It does the greatest credit to your husband’s ingenuity.” Then, suddenly reflecting, he said in a strange, hard voice: “If I act successfully your husband himself may be charged with giving away secrets to the enemy. If so, because you love him, you might denounce me, Elena.” After a second’s pause, he added: “I trust no one. Not even you. My life is at stake in this affair. Therefore, you will swear that, whatever happens, and even if suspicion be cast upon your husband, you will never betray me?”

“Of course, Carlo. Am I not Austrian? I swear it.”

The spy took from a table a book covered with shiny black leather, and pressed it very firmly into her hand. It was a copy of the New Testament.

“Kiss it – and swear,” he said.

In obedience, she acted as he wished, repeating a solemn oath after him.

“I trust you, Elena,” he said fervently, at the same time gallantly kissing the back of the white, slim hand which had held the book.

“And I trust you, Carlo,” she whispered. “Trust in me. No suspicion must rest upon anybody. I leave that to your own clever ingenuity.”

A few moments later she descended the steep stone stairs to hurry home as quickly as she could. Arriving at the great palazzo, she at once resumed her smart dinner-gown, and, entering the salon half an hour afterwards, sat down to await her husband’s return.

Ere she had done this, however, the motor-launch of the Countess Malipiero, driven by old Beppo, sped out from the harbour on pretence of taking an invitation to one of the lieutenants on board the battleship Italia, which was lying just within the Mole.

He slowed up alongside one of the guardships by the boom, and as he did so the great eye of a searchlight was turned full upon him. Then, at once recognised by the watchman on duty, he was allowed to pass out to sea. Being such a familiar figure, no suspicion had ever been cast upon the stern, patriotic old fellow.

Sometimes his boat was stopped and examined, but, as he never had anything aboard, it had become a habit with the guardships to allow him to pass unchallenged.

When about a mile from the boom, the old fellow drew a map from his pocket, and, having examined it very carefully by the light of a flash-lamp, consulted his compass. Then, altering his course, he sped along for nearly two hours in the darkening night, when at last he placed two green lights, one at port and one at bow.

He had started at ten, but it was nearly one o’clock in the morning when he began to grow anxious and consult his watch.

Presently he saw the slight tremor of a searchlight, and, fearing detection by some Italian ship, he at once extinguished all his lights, and, pulling up, waited for nearly half an hour. It was a dark, lonely vigil, but, with the aid of another cigar, the crafty old seafarer passed the time until he again ventured to relight his green lamps.

Scarcely had he done this when, about half a mile away, he saw a tiny light winking in the Morse code. He read the familiar signal, and, cutting off his engine, waited until, of a sudden, the low hull of a submarine came up in the darkness, quite close to him. Then, adroitly manoeuvring his launch, both the vessel and boat rising and falling in the heavy swell, he drew nearer.

“Is that Beppo?” shouted a voice in Italian from the submarine. “Yes,” shouted the old man. “I have something for you.” He took from his pocket a small leather bag-purse, such as men carry, one of those drawn through a ring, tied it upon a tight line, and, standing up, he flung it with a seaman’s precision over the conning-tower of the submarine.

“All right,” shouted the Austrian officer, for such he was. “Wait a moment till I’ve read what you have brought.”

For a few moments he disappeared into the body of the vessel, while Beppo hauled in his wet line. Then, when the officer reappeared, he shouted:

“All right, Beppo. No answer. Buona notte e buon viaggio.” That same evening a secret council had been held, presided over by the Admiral, when all the details were arranged. The officers and crew of the Austrian submarine Number 117 were safely under lock and key, and after the council, just before eleven o’clock, the Admiral himself visited the captured undersea boat, and inspected it. Commander Bellini, one of Italy’s most distinguished submarine officers, had been chosen, together with a picked crew, to attempt the raid, but none were informed, for the Marchese was determined this time to keep the secret of his plans.

Just before midnight a submarine, heavily awash, for the sea was rough, slipped away out of the harbour of Sarzana, winked a farewell message, and then, submerging so as not to be seen by other ships, was lost to view.

She was the raider, the intention of whose commander was to blow up, or damage seriously, at least half a dozen of the enemy’s ships lying off Fiume, on the other shore of the Adriatic.

The Italian crew consisted of a picked lot of fine patriotic fellows, who only now knew their desperate mission, and they knew also what their fate must be – either death or capture, when the truth became revealed.

After travelling swiftly all night, the periscope revealed at dawn the long, broken Austrian coast. Then, when within five miles of the entrance to the deep bay of Quarnero, at the end of which is situated Austria’s important harbour, the vessel emerged and ran up her Austrian colours. Before her, high upon the green point of Monte Grosso, which guards the entrance to the bay, a signal was made, to which Number 117 replied, and then, with her grey hull showing above the surface, she sped unsuspiciously up the channel, past the small wooded islands, and the pretty town of Abbazia, into the harbour, where lay fully a dozen war vessels, including three of the enemy’s biggest battleships.

Suddenly, however, just as she was about to discharge a torpedo at a battleship flying the Admiral’s flag, the thunder of guns rang out from all sides, and Number 117 became the target for concentrated fire from all the forts.

As the shells hit her she flew to pieces. Next second she was seen to be rapidly sinking with all on board, not a soul being able to escape from that rain of death.

The submarine had been entrapped, and the raid had ignominiously failed.

News of the disaster reached Admiral Michelozzo-Alfani through the Naval Intelligence Department in the afternoon, and he sat in his room astounded. So well kept had been his secret that he felt absolutely positive that, outside those officers who formed his Council, nobody had any knowledge of his intention. All of those officers were men above suspicion.

That there was a traitor somewhere he was more fully convinced than ever. Other minor secrets had been known to the enemy mysteriously from time to time, yet he had been utterly unable to trace the source of the leakage. Alone in his office at the port, he sat at his table, his brow resting upon his hands.

At noon, unknown to him, his wife had telephoned to the Countess Malipiero, but was informed by the latter’s maid that she had left hurriedly for Rome on the previous night, after a visit from her friend, Signor Corradini.

Throughout the afternoon she expected Carlo to call upon her, and became extremely anxious when he did not put in an appearance.

At last, unable to stand the strain longer, she sent her little sewing-maid round to Corradini’s flat, but the girl returned with the letter to say that, according to the donna di casa, the signor had left Sarzana hurriedly at ten o’clock the previous night.

The hours seemed like years as the guilty woman sat alone in her magnificent, old-world salon, pale, startled, and nervous. Upon her left hand she wore a white glove. She had worn it ever since the previous evening, and the reason had greatly perturbed her.

At last, at nearly ten o’clock that night, her husband returned, hard-faced and haggard. With him was his chief of staff, Captain Vivarini, Madame Gabrielle, and myself. The instant we entered the room she saw that Guilio was not his old self.

“Elena,” he said abruptly, in a deep, hard voice, “I have something to say to you, and I have brought Vivarini here as witness.”

“As witness,” she echoed, starting to her feet. “Of what?”

“As witness that you are innocent of the charge made against you, that you, though my wife, are a spy of Austria.”

“A spy,” she laughed uneasily, in pretence of ridicule. “Have you really taken leave of your senses, Guilio?”