Muttering an apology, Lopez walked away, and as he strode rapidly
across the deck toward the companionway, the Camera Chap noted
curiously that his footsteps were uncannily noiseless. Cipriani, too,
seemed to observe that fact, for he remarked, with a smile: “Our friend
certainly is most appropriately named. Does not his walk suggest to you
the lope of a wolf?”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” said the Camera Chap. “Who is he?”
“His name is José Lopez, and he hails from Baracoa. That is all I
can tell you about him. I have just made his acquaintance. We got to
talking about his country, and that is how we came to discuss Señora
Felix. I wish I could express to you how deeply I regret that I so
cruelly hurt her feelings. If you are acquainted with the lady and----”
“I am not,” Hawley hastily interrupted. “I merely know her by sight.
She was pointed out to me the other day in Washington.”
“Ah! You are from Washington?” It seemed to the Camera Chap that the
other looked at him very keenly.
“Not guilty,” he said, with a laugh. “New York is my stamping ground. I
merely happened to be in Washington for a couple of days.”
“I see. And you are now bound for----” Cipriani paused interrogatively.
“I am going as far as Puerto Cabero.”
Once more the other looked at him searchingly. “Might I inquire the
object of your visit to Baracoa, if the question is not too personal?”
Hawley smiled. “I haven’t any great objection to answering it,”
he said. “I am an artist, and I am going to make some pictures. I
understand that the landscapes there are very fine.”
“An artist,” the other exclaimed. “That is interesting. I should very
much like to see some of your work.”
“Perhaps some day I will show you,” said the Camera Chap, his eyes
twinkling. “And now, having answered your question, may I ask you one
in return?”
“I am at your service, señor.”
“I would like to know why you are so bitterly prejudiced against Señora
Felix. She doesn’t strike me as being the sort of woman who deserves
the unkind things you said about her.”
Cipriani shrugged his shoulders. “You are young, my friend. When you
have lived as long as I you will not judge by appearances,” he said
gravely.
“But that isn’t answering my question,” Hawley insisted. “Have you any
special reason for believing that the señora knows where her husband
is?”
“Only my knowledge of human nature,” Cipriani replied. “As I said
before, it is only logical to suppose that Felix has communicated with
his wife since he ran away. I understand that they were a most devoted
couple. I presume that when he fled they had an understanding that she
was to join him later on; probably she has found it impossible to do so
because of the close watch that Portiforo has kept on her.”
“How do you know that Portiforo has been keeping a close watch on her?”
Hawley asked quickly.
Cipriani seemed discomfited by the question. He winced, and his ruddy
face changed color; but his confusion quickly passed. “Of course, I do
not know it,” he said suavely. “I only assume it. Is it not logical
to suppose that the government of Baracoa would keep the wife of an
absconding president under close surveillance? If you had ever lived in
South America you would not have asked that question. There are more
spies down there than there are people to spy on.”
He threw the stub of his cigarette into the sea, and took a gold case
from his pocket to supply himself with another. “May I offer you one of
these?” he said. “They are of my own manufacture. I am in the cigarette
business in Buenos Aires.”
“No, thank you,” said Hawley. “I prefer a pipe.” He felt in his pocket.
“That reminds me; I left my brier in my stateroom. I’ll go and get it.
See you again, sir.”
The South American smiled and bowed, but as the Camera Chap walked
away the smile abruptly left his face, and was replaced by an anxious
expression. “We must find out more about that interesting young man,”
he mused. “I don’t think he is going to Baracoa to paint landscapes.”
When Hawley reached his stateroom he made a disconcerting discovery.
The room had been entered since he was there last, and somebody had
been through his baggage. He knew that such was the case because
certain articles were not as he had left them. Nothing was missing--a
close inventory of his effects satisfied him as to that; but the
contents of his trunk and his suit case were slightly disarranged.
With a frown he stepped out into the corridor, and went in search of
the steward. “Didn’t happen to see anybody go in or out of my room
during the last two hours, did you?” he inquired.
The man looked worried. “No, sir; I--I didn’t actually see anybody--go
in or out,” he stammered. “But, now that you speak of it, I saw
something that was rather queer.”
“What was that?”
“As I was passing your door, ten minutes ago, I saw a man fumbling with
the lock. It looked to me as if he was just locking the door; but when
I stepped up to him he explained that he had made a mistake, and was
trying to get in, thinking it was his own room.”
“Ah!” Hawley exclaimed. “Do you know who he was?”
“Yes, sir; it was the gentleman who occupies the room across the hall
from yours--Señor José Lopez.”
“The deuce!” muttered Hawley. “No wonder he has such a catlike tread.
Evidently he needs it in his business. Begins to look as if he might
be one of Portiforo’s spies sent---- By Jove! I’ve got the answer,
now, as to where I’ve seen his face. What a chump I am not to have
remembered before. It was the absence of his whiskers that fooled me.
His appearance is considerably changed without them, but I’m quite
sure, now, that he’s the same busybody who was trailing Señora Felix in
a taxicab.”