last talk, and that she charged me with something too nearly true to be endurable.
“My brother’s letter? Given to the prison warder by Fernando Briga? My dear Captain Alingdon—on what authority do you expect me to believe such a tale?”
Her incredulity had in it an evident implication of bad faith, and I was stung to a quick reply.
“If you will turn over the letter you will see.”
She continued to gaze at me a moment: then she obeyed. I don’t think I ever admired her more than I did then. As she read the name a tremor crossed her face; and that was all. Her mind must have reached out instantly to the farthest consequences of the discovery, but the long habit of self-command enabled her to steady her muscles at once. If I had not been on the alert I should have seen no hint of emotion.
For a while she looked fixedly at the back of the letter; then she raised her eyes to mine.
“Can you tell me who wrote this?” she asked.
Her composure irritated me. She had rallied all her forces to Briga’s defence, and I felt as though my triumph were slipping from me.
“Probably one of the clerks of the archives,” I answered. “It is written in the same hand as all the other memoranda relating to the political prisoners of that year.”
“But it is a lie!” she exclaimed. “He was never admitted to the prisons.”
“Are you sure?”
“How should he have been?”
“He might have gone as his father’s assistant.”
“But if he had seen my poor brother he would have told me long ago.”
“Not if he had really given up this letter,” I retorted.
I supposed her quick intelligence had seized this from the first; but I saw now that it came to her as a shock. She stood motionless, clenching the letter in her hands, and I could guess the rapid travel of her thoughts.
Suddenly she came up to me. “Colonel Alingdon,” she said, “you have been a good friend of mine, though I think you have not liked me lately. But whether you like me or not, I know you will not deceive me. On your honor, do you think this memorandum may have been written later than the letter?”
I hesitated. If she had cried out once against Briga I should have wished myself out of the business; but she was too sure of him.
“On my honor,” I said, “I think it hardly possible. The ink has faded to the same degree.”
She made a rapid comparison and folded the letter with a gesture of assent.
“It may have been written by an enemy,” I went on, wishing to clear myself of any appearance of malice.
She shook her head. “He was barely fifteen—and his father was on the side of the government. Besides, this would have served him with the government, and the liberals would never have known of it.”
This was unanswerable—and still not a word of revolt against the man whose condemnation she was pronouncing!
“Then—” I said with a vague gesture.
She caught me up. “Then—?”
“You have answered my objections,” I returned.
“Your objections?”
“To thinking that Signor Briga could have begun his career as a patriot by betraying a friend.”
I had brought her to the test at last, but my eyes shrank from her face as I spoke. There was a dead silence, which I broke by adding lamely: “But no doubt Signor Briga could explain.”
She lifted her head, and I saw that my triumph was to be short. She stood erect, a few paces from me, resting her hand on a table, but not for support.
“Of course he can explain,” she said; “do you suppose I ever doubted it? But—” she paused a moment, fronting me nobly—“he need not, for I understand it all now.”
“Ah,” I murmured with a last flicker of irony.
“I understand,” she repeated. It was she, now, who sought my eyes and held them. “It is quite simple—he could not have done otherwise.”
This was a little too oracular to be received with equanimity. I suppose I smiled.
“He could not have done otherwise,” she repeated with tranquil emphasis. “He merely did what is every Italian’s duty—he put Italy before himself and his friends.” She waited a moment, and then went on with growing passion: “Surely you must see what I mean? He was evidently in the prison with his father at the time of my poor brother’s death. Emilio perhaps guessed that he was a friend—or perhaps appealed to him because he was young and looked kind. But don’t you see how dangerous it would have been for Briga to bring this letter to us, or even to hide it in his father’s house? It is true that he was not yet suspected of liberalism, but he was already connected with Young Italy, and it is just because he managed to keep himself so free of suspicion that he was able to do such good work for the cause.” She paused, and then went on with a firmer voice. “You don’t know the danger we all lived in. The government spies were everywhere. The laws were set aside as the Duke pleased—was not Emilio hanged for having an ode to Italy in his desk? After Menotti’s conspiracy the Duke grew mad with fear—he was haunted by the dread of assassination. The police, to prove their zeal, had to trump up false charges and arrest innocent persons—you remember the case of poor Ricci? Incriminating papers were smuggled into people’s houses—they were condemned to death on the paid evidence of brigands and galley-slaves. The families of the revolutionists were under the closest observation and were shunned by all who wished to stand well with the government. If Briga had been seen going into our house he would at once have been suspected. If he had hidden
