It was not until the _Colombia_ was approaching Puerto Guerra, the
first port of call in Baracoa, that the Camera Chap exchanged a single
word with Señora Felix. Possibly he could have conversed with her
before that had he desired to do so, for she spent much time on deck,
and on several occasions, as he passed her steamer chair, he caught her
dark eyes regarding him with keen interest. Several incidents arose,
too, which seemed to offer him an opportunity to make her acquaintance,
and, modest young man though he was, he could not help suspecting that
these incidents were arranged by her in an effort to bring about that
result.
Once, for instance, as he walked past where she sat, she dropped the
magazine she was reading, and it seemed to Hawley that it was done
somewhat ostentatiously, as though she fully expected him to pick it
up. On another occasion her shawl fell from her shoulders to the deck
as she was promenading, when Hawley was standing near by, and once more
it seemed to him that the act was done deliberately.
But even at the sacrifice of having to appear boorish, he ignored these
and other advances--if they were advances--for although, under other
circumstances, he would have been delighted to make the fair señora’s
acquaintance, he had decided that it would be most indiscreet to do
so now. He had made up his mind to keep away from her throughout the
entire trip.
It was the mysterious, soft-treading passenger known as Señor José
Lopez who was responsible for this decision on his part. There was no
doubt now in Hawley’s mind that the fellow was a spy, a secret agent of
the Portiforo government, and such being the case he deemed it highly
necessary to keep Lopez from guessing that there was aught in common
between himself and the wife of the missing president of Baracoa. The
slightest evidence of friendship between himself and the woman, he
surmised, might give the spy cause to suspect the real object of his
mission to South America.
But one evening, as the vessel was approaching the hilly coast line
of Baracoa, a steward handed him a note. The missive was in a woman’s
handwriting, and although it bore no signature he guessed at once from
whom it had come. It was short--merely a couple of lines stating that
the writer would appreciate it very much if Mr. Hawley would make it a
point to be on the promenade deck after eleven o’clock that night.
Guessing whom he would meet there if he kept this appointment, the
Camera Chap’s first thought was to ignore the summons. But upon
reflection, he changed his mind. “It would be a pretty shabby way to
act,” he told himself. “Besides, I’m too curious to know what she wants
of me to be able to resist the temptation. I’ll take a chance--provided
I can dodge that infernal busybody with the gumshoes. I’m afraid
I can’t afford to keep the appointment if he’s going to be there.
However, I think I’ll be able to get rid of him.”
That evening most of the passengers retired unusually early. The
_Colombia_ was to dock at sunrise the following morning, and everybody,
even those who were not going ashore, desired to be awake early to get
the first sight of land. At nine-thirty, as the orchestra finished its
final selections, Hawley exchanged “Good night” with several of his
acquaintances, and went to his stateroom. A few minutes later, Señor
José Lopez came down the corridor with his noiseless, catlike tread,
and stood listening intently outside the Camera Chap’s door.
The latter grinned as he heard the eavesdropper’s soft breathing.
He was aware of the fact that his neighbor across the hall paid him
this attention each night, never going to bed until he had made sure
that Hawley had retired. That cautious young man now went through the
formality of disrobing. Señor Lopez heard the thud of his shoes as he
allowed them to drop noisily to the floor. Shortly afterward there was
the click of the electric light being switched off, and soon after that
a sound like a buzz saw in action satisfied the eavesdropper that the
occupant of the room was well settled in the land of dreams. Then Lopez
stole across the corridor to his own stateroom, and turned in with an
easy mind.
A little more than an hour later the Camera Chap arose, dressed himself
in the dark, and, with his feet incased in a pair of tennis shoes,
emerged from his stateroom, and moved along the corridor with a secrecy
which would have done credit to Lopez himself.
When he reached the promenade deck and strode past the long row of
empty chairs, there was not a person to be seen. He was beginning to
wonder if he were not the victim of a practical joke, when suddenly he
espied a shrouded figure, which looked almost ghostly in the moonlight,
coming toward him. With a cautious glance behind him, he stepped
forward to meet her.
“It was very good of you to come,” the woman said softly. “But I knew
that you would--just as I feel confident that you will grant me the
favor that I am going to ask of you.” As she spoke she drew aside the
silken, fringed mantilla which concealed all of her face except her
eyes, but even before she did this the Camera Chap knew with whom he
was talking.
“If there is any service I can render you, señora, you have only to
name it,” he avowed impulsively. And he meant it, for as he gazed into
her dark, sad eyes all the chivalry in him was stirred, and he thrilled
with pity for this frail, unhappy woman. At that moment he would have
been prepared to go to the rescue of her husband with a sword instead
of a camera if more could have been gained that way.
“I am glad to hear you say that,” Señora Felix said gratefully. “I
trust that you will not change your mind, Mr. Hawley, when I tell you
that the favor I am going to ask of you concerns the errand which has
brought you to Baracoa.”
The Camera Chap gave a start of surprise. “Then you know----” he
began excitedly, but suddenly on his guard, abruptly checked himself.
“The errand which has brought me to Baracoa!” he exclaimed, with
well-feigned bewilderment. “I beg your pardon, señora; I’m afraid I
don’t quite understand.”
The woman laughed softly. “You can be quite frank with me,” she said.
“I know who has sent you to Baracoa, and what you expect to find--in
the fortress of El Torro.” She paused, and an anxious expression
flitted across her face. “And the favor I’m going to ask of you, Mr.
Hawley, is--to give up this undertaking.”
The Camera Chap stared at her in astonishment. “To give it up!” he
exclaimed incredulously. “Surely you can’t mean that, señora! If you
really know who sent me and what I hope to accomplish, it seems to me
you are the last person in the world who should make such a request of
me.”
The woman sighed. “There is a good reason for what I ask. You would be
running a great risk, and----”
“Don’t worry about the risk, señora,” the Camera Chap interrupted
cheerfully. “If that’s your only reason for asking me to quit, I’m
afraid I’ll have to refuse to listen to you.”
“It isn’t the only reason,” she rejoined. “If there was anything to
be gained by it, I’m afraid I would be selfish enough to let you go
ahead in spite of the danger you would incur; but when I know that you
have come on a wild-goose chase, I feel it my duty to prevent you from
sacrificing yourself.”
“A wild-goose chase!” the Camera Chap repeated.
“Yes; for your president is misinformed,” the señora declared tensely.
“My husband is not confined in El Torro. He is not in Baracoa. There is
no truth in the rumor which has brought you here.”
It was almost as if she had struck Hawley a physical blow. Although,
of course, he had realized all along that there was a possibility
of the story turning out to be baseless, and although the president
had intimated that he himself placed no stock in the sensational
rumor, and was merely sending Hawley to Baracoa in order to remove
the last possible doubt from his mind, somehow the Camera Chap had
been confident until that moment that he was embarked on no fruitless
mission. Instinctively he had felt that Felix was a martyr instead of
the rogue which the world believed him. But now this statement, coming
from the missing man’s wife, seemed to dispel all hope that such was
the case.
“Do you know where he is, señora?” he inquired, his disappointment
evident in his voice.
The woman hesitated, and he caught the shade which flitted across her
face. “I do,” she said at length, almost in a whisper. “He is--in
Europe.”
“You are quite sure, señora? Is it not possible that you, too, have
been deceived?”
She shook her head. “No; that is not possible--for I have been in
constant communication with him. I received a letter from him only last
week.” She smiled sadly. “So you see, Mr. Hawley, there is nothing for
you to do.”