As the _Colombia_ steamed into the harbor of Puerto Cabero the
following day, the Camera Chap caught sight of a turreted,
forbidding-looking gray edifice on the east shore, and he did not have
to make inquiries in order to know what this building was. Although he
had never seen it before, he knew that he was gazing on the fortress
of El Torro, which, in addition to being the main defense of Baracoa’s
chief seaport, was also internationally famous as the living tomb of
several ill-starred wretches whose political activities had earned for
them the grim decoration of the ball and chain.
According to the rumor which had brought Hawley to South America, it
was within this building that Portiforo had the unhappy Felix locked
up; therefore the Camera Chap viewed it with more than idle interest.
As he noted the sentries marching to and fro in front of the gray walls
it impressed him as being “a pretty formidable sort of a joint,” and he
didn’t imagine that it was going to be exactly a picnic to get inside
of it.
“I observe that the señor is interested in El Torro,” exclaimed a voice
close behind him. “It is a place much easier to enter than it is to
leave.”
Coming as though in response to his unspoken thought, the words
startled Hawley. He wheeled swiftly, and found himself gazing into the
swarthy countenance of Señor José Lopez.
“What do you mean by that remark?” he demanded sharply. Then, suddenly
on his guard, he added more mildly: “What makes you think that I am
particularly interested in El Torro?”
The other bared his large teeth in a wolflike grin. “I judged that such
was the case from the manner in which the señor was staring at it,” he
replied quietly.
The Camera Chap laughed. “It is a picturesque pile,” he declared. “From
an artistic standpoint it appeals to me greatly. I certainly will have
to make a picture of it before I return to the United States. That is,
of course, if it isn’t against the rules.”
Lopez shrugged his shoulders. “I dare say there will be no objection to
Señor Hawley making as many pictures as he desires--of the outside of
El Torro,” he remarked.
“Now, I wonder what the deuce he meant by that!” Hawley reflected, as
the other walked away. “I’d give a lot to know whether that confounded
spy suspects anything.”
Until that moment he had felt confident that he had his inquisitive
fellow passenger guessing as to the object of his visit to Baracoa,
but the significant remark which the latter had just let drop made him
exceedingly uneasy. There being no doubt in his mind that Lopez was a
secret agent of the Portiforo government, he feared that he was going
to have a hard time losing him when they got ashore; in fact, he was
now even prepared to be challenged by the immigration authorities, and
told that his presence in Baracoa was not desired. But, greatly to his
relief, both these fears proved unfounded. When the vessel docked, the
pier authorities manifested no more interest in him than in any of
the other passengers; on the contrary, the customs officers were so
careless in their examination of his baggage that they did not even
discover the big camera in his trunk. And when he went ashore, Lopez
made no attempt to shadow him; in fact, he saw the latter board a train
without even a glance in his direction.
Another circumstance which surprised him somewhat was that Señora
Felix was also permitted to land without undue attention from the
authorities. In view of what had happened at Puerto Guerra, and her
obvious interest therein, he had been wondering ever since whether she
would not be placed under arrest as soon as she attempted to land, on a
charge of being in some way connected with the affair, and he was very
glad to find that such was not the case.
Hawley watched the landing of the señora with great interest. He
observed that as she and her maid stepped from the pier, many people
stared at her, recognizing her as the wife of their missing president;
but nobody spoke to her, with the exception of a blond-haired,
blue-eyed girl in a pink dress, who stepped up and greeted her
effusively.
This young woman aroused the Camera Chap’s curiosity. It was quite
evident that she was not a native of Baracoa; at first sight he would
have been willing to bet all the money he had in his pocket that she
was of his own people. She appeared to be still in her “teens,” and
was of such an attractive personality that almost any one would have
bestowed more than one glance upon her, even if his interest had not
been intensified by the fact that she was there to welcome Señora Felix.
For a few minutes the two women stood chatting together in the plaza
in front of the steamship pier, Celeste, the señora’s maid, hanging
respectfully in the background. Then, followed by the latter, they made
their way toward a touring car standing near by, which they entered.
The girl in pink gave some instructions to the liveried negro at the
wheel, and the car dashed up one of the steep roads which led to the
capital.
Not once since she had come ashore had the señora appeared to notice
the Camera Chap--he suspected that she studiously refrained from
doing so for reasons which he fully appreciated--but just before the
automobile started she whispered something to her fair companion, and
the latter turned in her seat and looked deliberately toward where he
was standing. There were several other persons in his vicinity, and
it might have been any of these at whom her glance was directed, but
Hawley, modest man though he was, felt positive that he was the object
of her scrutiny, and somehow the thought afforded him much satisfaction.
He was not left long in ignorance as to the identity of this
prepossessing young woman, for, as the car started off, the
conversation of two natives standing near him supplied him with that
information.
“Is it not somewhat surprising that the daughter of the American
minister should be on such friendly terms with the wife of the
abominable Felix?” Hawley overheard one of them remark in Spanish. To
which the other responded, with a shrug: “Nothing is surprising about
those Yankees.”
The Camera Chap was too much absorbed in the information he had gleaned
even to feel like resenting the slur upon his countrymen. So the girl
in pink was Miss Throgmorton, the daughter of the American minister to
Baracoa! And she was on such intimate terms with Señora Felix that she
alone had come to welcome the latter back to her native land! Here was
an interesting discovery, indeed.
At that moment there flashed through his mind what his friend and
managing editor, Tom Paxton, had said about the sentiments of the
United States minister to Baracoa toward the _Sentinel_, and all
men connected with it. He devoutly hoped that the daughter did not
share her father’s prejudices in that respect, for he had already
fully decided that if it were possible he was going to make Miss
Throgmorton’s acquaintance before he had been many days in Baracoa.