The Andean line steamship _Colombia_ was about to weigh anchor when the
Camera Chap came aboard. He was not the only passenger who narrowly
missed being left behind. As his taxicab drew up at the wharf two
women were just alighting from an electric brougham. One of them was
a blonde, and the other a pronounced brunette. Hawley gave a start of
surprise at sight of them.
“Bon voyage, dear,” the blond woman was saying. “I trust that
everything will come out all right, and that you will soon be back in
Washington. After all, your father’s condition may not be as serious as
the telegram makes out. You know how doctors sometimes exaggerate.”
The dark woman smiled faintly. “I pray that it may be so,” she said;
“but I am greatly worried. They would not have sent for me unless it
was very serious. Au revoir, and thank you a thousand times for all
your kindnesses.”
“All aboard, ladies!” the officer at the gangplank cried. “Please
hurry.”
The women embraced, and the blonde, whom Hawley had recognized as the
wife of the United States attorney general, reëntered the brougham. The
other hurried up the gangplank, the Camera Chap following close behind
her.
“Señora Felix!” he said to himself. “I didn’t expect to have her for a
fellow passenger. Lucky, I guess, that I decided to take this boat.”
On board the señora was greeted by a younger woman, whom she addressed
as Celeste, and who, Hawley learned later, was her maid. They went
immediately to her stateroom.
Hawley soon learned that Señora Felix’s departure from the United
States was no secret. He had brought an evening newspaper on board,
and on an inside page he came across the following heading, so
inconspicuously displayed that it had first escaped his notice:
“Fugitive President’s Wife Goes Back.--Victoria Felix, ‘Grass Widow’
of Baracoa’s Missing Chief Executive, Sails To-day for Her Native
Land After Two Years’ Exile in Washington.--Serious Illness of Her
Father Given as Cause of Trip.”
From the quarter of a column of smaller type which appeared beneath
this heading he learned that Señora Felix’s father was Doctor Emilio
Hernandez, a prominent physician of San Cristobal, the capital of
Baracoa. He had been seized with a paralytic stroke, and his daughter
had been hurriedly summoned.
It was not until the vessel was well out at sea that the Camera Chap
saw the señora again. She did not appear in the dining saloon for the
evening meal, nor did she show herself on deck during the first day of
the voyage. He inquired of one of the stewards, and learned that she
was indisposed. But on the second day he saw her reclining in a steamer
chair on the promenade deck, apparently absorbed in the pages of a
French novel. He stood with his back against the starboard rail at a
sufficient distance from her chair to avoid making his attention too
marked, and covertly studied her.
She was slender, dark-eyed, about forty, and of aristocratic bearing.
She was still beautiful, although suffering had imprinted deep lines on
her olive skin. The set of her chin and the shape of her delicate mouth
denoted character; in that respect the young man who was so intently
watching her felt that he had never seen a face which impressed him
more favorably. He recalled what Bates had said about the probability
of her knowing the whereabouts of her fugitive husband, and he decided
that the Washington correspondent must be wrong about that.
“If Felix isn’t the martyr I believe him to be--if his disappearance
was voluntary, that woman was not a party to it, either before or
afterward,” he told himself confidently. “A woman with a face like hers
wouldn’t shield a crook, even if he was her husband. I take her to be
the kind that would go through fire for a man worthy of her love, but a
woman who wouldn’t have a particle of use for a moral weakling.”
As he was thus soliloquizing, the subject of his thoughts looked up
from her book, and their eyes met. A faint tinge of pink made itself
visible beneath her dark skin, as though she were embarrassed by his
scrutiny. She frowned slightly; then resumed her reading.
Feeling that he owed her an apology for his seeming rudeness, Hawley
was debating in his mind whether it would be discreet to take her
into his confidence as to his mission to Baracoa, when an incident
occurred which diverted his attention. Two men strolling along the
promenade deck suddenly halted a short distance from where the señora
was sitting, and stood leaning with their elbows resting on the rail.
Hawley recognized both of these men. One of them, in fact, occupied
the stateroom opposite his own. He was a clean-shaven, swarthy man of
middle age, who was down on the passenger list as Señor José Lopez.
The first time he had seen him on the boat it had struck Hawley that
there was something familiar about the fellow’s face, but so far he had
cudgeled his brain in an effort to recall when and where he had seen
him before.
The other man was of striking appearance. He was tall, and of soldierly
carriage. His dark, curly hair was gray at the temples, but, apart
from this evidence of years, his handsome face was so youthful looking
that he could easily have passed for a man in the early thirties. His
complexion was ruddy, his dark eyes were sparkling. His well-waxed
mustache, the ends of which were as sharp as stiletto points, gave his
countenance a decidedly foreign aspect, otherwise he might have been
taken for an American. The Camera Chap had learned that his name was
Juan Cipriani, that he was a native of Argentine, and on his way back
to that country.
The pair had been engaged in conversation as they approached, and now,
as they leaned against the rail, they continued talking. They spoke in
Spanish, and it seemed to Hawley that their voices were pitched above
their normal register.
“In my opinion, it is a piece of impertinence for her to return to
Baracoa,” the one known as Cipriani said emphatically. “If she has any
delicacy she must realize how unwelcome she will be to the people whom
her rascally husband robbed and betrayed.”
“But if her father is dying,” the other argued tolerantly.
“Bah!” retorted Cipriani, with a contemptuous gesture. “Who would
believe that story? You can depend upon it, my friend, her sole purpose
in going back there is to make trouble. If your President Portiforo
were wise he would instruct his port officers to refuse to permit her
to leave the ship. That is the only way to deal with a woman of her
stripe.”
“But, after all, it is scarcely fair to blame her for her husband’s
sins,” Lopez suggested mildly. “We must admit that the abominable Felix
treated her as shabbily as he did my unfortunate country. I understand
that she has not once heard from him since he fled.”
The other laughed ironically. “Are you so ingenuous, my friend,
as to believe that? You can be sure that he has been in constant
communication with her, and that she is only waiting for a chance to
join him and help him spend his stolen fortune. No doubt, she would
have done so before now if she had not feared that she was too closely
watched to---- I beg your pardon, sir--what did you say?”
This last remark was addressed to the Camera Chap, who, unable to
contain himself any longer, had stepped up, frowning angrily, a
menacing glint in his eyes. He knew Spanish well enough to make out
most of their conversation, and although he had stood some distance
away, every word that they had uttered had reached his ears. He knew,
too, that the señora had heard. She was making a brave pretense of
being absorbed in her novel, but the book trembled perceptibly in her
hand. Up to this point Hawley had hesitated to interfere, feeling that
such a course might only add to her embarrassment; but now he decided
that this cruelty must be stopped. If these men were permitted to go on
there was no telling what they might say next.
“I say that your conversation is offensive,” he repeated quietly, but
with emphasis. “I ask you to stop it immediately.”
He spoke in English, and Cipriani answered him in that language, which
he spoke fluently, although with a marked accent. “It seems to me that
you are impertinent, sir,” the latter said, his dark eyes flashing.
“Might I inquire in what way our conversation could possibly be
offensive to you?”
The Camera Chap lowered his voice. “Don’t you realize that every
word you are saying is being heard by Señora Felix? What kind of men
are you, any way, to insult a woman like this? I thought you South
Americans boasted of your chivalry.”
Señor Cipriani glanced toward the woman in the steamer chair. Suddenly
she rose and walked away with dignity. A look of astonishment came in
Cipriani’s face. “Señora Felix!” he repeated. “My dear sir, you don’t
mean to tell me that is she?”
“Of course. Didn’t you know it?”
Cipriani shook his head. “How unfortunate!” he murmured, and if the
regret in his tone was feigned, it was skillfully done. “I assure you,
sir, that I would rather have had my tongue cut out than intentionally
make such remarks in the presence of the lady. I would apologize to her
most abjectly, but I fear that would only be making matters worse. You
see, I’ve never met the señora--this is the first time I have seen her
since she came aboard.” Then, seized with a sudden thought, he turned
upon Lopez, his face flaming with rage. “But you must have known her!”
he declared hotly. “It is not possible that you did not recognize the
wife of your former president. Why did you let me go ahead? Why did you
not warn me of what I was doing?”
The clean-shaven, swarthy man shrugged his shoulders. “I did not notice
that the señora was sitting there,” he said deprecatingly. “I was
so engrossed in your interesting remarks that I did not observe our
surroundings.” As he spoke he smiled--an expansive grin which bared his
large, exceedingly white teeth, which somehow reminded the Camera Chap
of the fangs of a wolf.
“Now, where the deuce have I seen that man?” Hawley asked himself. “The
more I see of him, the more I feel that we met before we came aboard,
but to save my life I can’t place him.”