When Gale told Virginia Throgmorton that he had a cablegram from
his office asking him to return to New York and report for duty
immediately, the girl received the tidings with an equanimity which was
not at all flattering to his pride.
“Won’t you be sorry to see me go?” he queried. Although his host’s
pretty daughter had taken no pains to conceal her dislike for him, his
egotism was so strong that he found it difficult to believe that he
really was not in her good graces.
“I think I shall be able to survive the blow,” Virginia answered
lightly.
The reporter frowned. “You didn’t feel that way about me when I first
came here, Virginia,” he said reproachfully. “You and I got along
together famously at first. It was only when that scamp Hawley first
showed his face in San Cristobal that I began to lose my pull with you.”
Virginia gave him a scornful glance. “Mr. Hawley isn’t a scamp,” she
replied indignantly. “And he didn’t have anything to do with your
losing your pull with me, as you term it. I had already found you out
before he arrived.”
“Well, it’s a mystery to me why you seem to be so strong for that
fellow,” Gale protested, ignoring the last part of her remark. “I
should think, after the trick he played you with those Felix letters,
you wouldn’t have any use for him.”
The girl stared at him wonderingly. “Have you the effrontery to keep on
claiming that Mr. Hawley stole those letters from my desk, when they
appeared in your own paper!” she exclaimed.
“That’s easily explained,” he rejoined coolly. “He sold the letters
to my paper. He didn’t dare sell them to his own, for fear that if he
did the crime would be traced straight to him. A fellow with as little
conscience as he has wouldn’t hesitate to scoop his own sheet in order
to make a few dollars. If you don’t think he was the thief,” he added
audaciously, “who do you suppose was?”
“If I wished to name the thief, I feel confident that I could do so,”
Virginia returned disdainfully.
Gale’s expression was one of injured innocence. “From your tone, I
almost think that you suspect me,” he said. “That’s pretty tough,
Virginia--giving that crook the benefit of the doubt in preference to
me. Since you persist in being so cruel,” he went on plaintively, “I
am almost glad to go back to New York. Without your friendship, San
Cristobal is a dull burg.” His eyes gleamed spitefully. “My only regret
at having to leave Baracoa at this time is that I shan’t be here to see
that rascally Camera Chap stood up in front of a firing squad.”
With this kindly remark he went out to see about booking his passage
home. As he drew near the steamship office he received the greatest
surprise of his life. Two men were just coming out of the place.
One of them wore the uniform of a lieutenant in the United States
navy. The other, who was in civilian garb, was a tall, slim young man
whose pale face offered a striking contrast to his companion’s ruddy
countenance. Gale stared at the latter with as much amazement as if he
had been gazing upon a ghost, and his surprise was not diminished when
the tall man, recognizing him, came eagerly toward him with his hand
outstretched and a smile upon his lips.
“I want to thank you, old man, for what you’ve done for me,” he said
warmly.
“Thank you!” the reporter couldn’t help exclaiming blankly.
“I understand that it is largely to you that I owe my freedom. It was
mighty white of you, Gale, to go to Portiforo on my behalf. I shan’t
forget it in a hurry.”
Gale felt somewhat uncomfortable, suspecting that what he heard must be
irony. But there was no mistaking the sincerity of the other’s manner,
and, as soon as he was convinced of this, the _News_ man grasped the
outstretched hand with well-simulated cordiality. He was greatly
puzzled by this queer situation, but, possessing remarkable rallying
powers, he quickly recovered his self-possession. “Don’t mention it,
Hawley, old fellow,” he said, “I am glad to see you free. Who told you
that I had a hand in getting you out?” he inquired, his manner implying
that he would greatly have preferred to have his good act shrouded in
anonymity.
“Portiforo told me,” was the amazing answer.
“The deuce!” Gale muttered. “I can’t understand why he should have told
you that?”
“Isn’t it true?” the other exclaimed, in an astonished tone.
The reporter smiled. “Oh, yes; it’s true enough. When I heard about
your being in trouble, I figured that my pull with Portiforo might
do you some good, so I hiked to the palace and did my little best to
give you a boost. But,” he added, with a show of vexation, “I can’t
understand why the president should have told you of my humble efforts.
He promised that he wouldn’t mention it.”
“I’m glad that he did,” the Camera Chap said impulsively. “It was a
mighty decent thing for you to do, Gale, considering that the relations
between us have been--er--somewhat strained. Without meaning any
offense, I’d like to know why you did it?”
The _News_ man shrugged his shoulders. “After all, blood is thicker
than water,” he responded sentimentally. “I couldn’t stand by and see a
countryman of mine made a target for Baracoan bullets, when it was in
my power to save him, even though that countryman hadn’t acted quite
fairly to me in the past. Hang it all! I flatter myself I’m big enough
to do a good turn even for an enemy.”
“Well, we’re not going to be enemies any longer,” the good-natured
snapshot expert declared, once more impulsively offering his hand to
his supposed benefactor, who accepted it without a qualm.
Lieutenant Ridder, who had encountered Hawley outside the national
palace, and accompanied him to the steamship office, had listened to
this conversation with some surprise. “Who’s your friend, Frank?” he
inquired with a frown, after they had left Gale. “I can’t say that I’m
stuck on his looks. On first impression, I’d size him up as a mighty
slippery proposition. And as for owing your liberty to him, I think
you’re mistaken about that. I know of somebody else who deserves most
of the credit.”
“Who is he?” the Camera Chap demanded eagerly.
The naval officer’s eyes twinkled. “It isn’t a he--it’s a young woman.
I wonder if you could guess her name.”
“Miss Throgmorton?”
“Good guess,” Ridder chuckled. “Yes; it was the United States
minister’s daughter that did the trick for you. She forced her father
to use his influence with Portiforo.”
“Forced him? How do you know?”
“She told me so herself. I suppose she’d be angry with me if she knew
I was telling you a word about it, but I think it only right that you
should hear of her efforts in your behalf. She went to her governor
and told him that if you were guilty she was guilty also, as she had
assisted you to take that mysterious snapshot--she didn’t tell me what
it was--and that unless you were set free she was going to give herself
up to the authorities as accessory before the fact. There’s some class
to a girl who’ll go that far to help a friend.”
“Some class!” Hawley repeated, a tender look in his eyes. “Say! She’s
the pluckiest, whitest girl I ever met.”
The navy man grinned. “Well, you and she could form a mutual admiration
society,” he confided to his companion. “You certainly stand high with
her, old man. She----”
He stopped short at a sharp exclamation from his companion. To his
surprise he observed that, although his remark ought to have been of
great interest to the latter, he was paying no attention to it. They
were walking along the Avenida Bolivar, and the camera man’s gaze was
directed toward a man on the opposite side of the wide street. This
man wore the uniform of an officer of the Baracoan army, and he wore
spectacles of dark-blue glass.
“That’s mighty queer,” Ridder heard his companion mutter.
“Are you referring to the glasses?” the sailor inquired. “It is rather
odd to find a fellow in the service with such weak sight. In our own
army they’d retire him for disability, but I suppose anything is good
enough for Baracoa. Do you know who the fellow is? He seems to know you
from the way he’s staring over here.”
Hawley nodded. “Yes, I know him; his name is Reyes--Captain Ernesto
Reyes, of the engineers. But what puzzles me is why he should be
wearing those goggles. He didn’t wear any glasses at all a couple of
days ago.”
A little later the two men parted company, Ridder announcing that
he had to go back to the ship. Much as he liked him, Hawley was not
sorry to be rid of him just then. He was eager to make a call at the
United States legation, and as the person he hoped to see there was
not Minister Throgmorton, he preferred to go alone. When he arrived at
the legation, a disappointment awaited him. The old colored servant
informed him that Miss Virginia was not at home.
The visitor was surprised and chagrined to hear this, as a glimpse he
had caught of a pretty face at one of the upper windows apprised him
that this announcement was not to be taken literally. His face lighted
up, however, at some supplementary information which the servant
imparted to him. “Miss Virginia is not at home now, sir,” the old darky
repeated with a broad grin, “but,” he added in a mysterious whisper,
“she’s gwine out horseback ridin’ this afternoon. She done tol’ me to
be sure and tell you that.”
That afternoon, Hawley hired a mount and met his fair ally at the old
trysting place. The girl had dismounted and was standing in the middle
of the road talking to her steed as though he were a human being, when
the Camera Chap galloped up. She ran eagerly to meet him, both her
hands outstretched and her eyes shining joyously.
“This is almost too good to be true,” she cried, as he jumped from his
horse. “When I heard what they did to poor Doctor Bonsal this morning,
I was half crazy with fear on your account. You certainly have had a
narrow escape, Mr. Hawley.”
“Yes; and I understand that I owe it largely to you that I am now
free,” he said, his voice trembling. “I can’t begin to tell you how
much I----”
“Nonsense,” she interrupted, a rosy tinge making itself visible beneath
her fair skin. “Who told you that? It is to the President of the United
States that you owe your freedom.”
“The president!” the Camera Chap cried.
Virginia smiled. “Didn’t my father tell you that? Well, it’s the truth.
He didn’t tell it to me, either; but he received a code message from
the White House yesterday, and he was so careless as to leave it on
his desk when he went out. I suppose I ought to be very much ashamed
of myself, but my curiosity forced me to work out the translation with
the aid of the code book. What a very important man you must be, Mr.
Hawley, to have the president so concerned about you. But tell me what
happened at the palace! What did that tyrant have to say to you?”
Her companion laughed. “I must say, in justice to him, that he didn’t
act much like a tyrant to-day. If it hadn’t been for the things we know
about him, I would almost have thought from the way he treated me that
he really was the genial, benevolent old gentleman he looks to be when
his face is in repose.”
“Did he exact any promise from you in return for your release?” the
girl inquired anxiously.
“Only one. I am to leave Baracoa on to-morrow’s boat.”
Virginia’s face clouded. “Of course, I expected that,” she said, with a
sigh. “Still, it’s a great pity that you have to go.”
Her words brought a joyous expression to Hawley’s face. “Do you really
care?” he asked.
“Of course I care,” she answered, her color deepening; “but not on my
own account--at least,” she added, with sweet candor, “not wholly on
my own account. I was thinking of poor President Felix. You are going
to leave him to his fate? Of course, I don’t blame you for going,” she
explained quickly, observing the hurt expression which came to his
face. “It would be suicide for you to stay after what has happened,
and you have already made enough sacrifices in his behalf. Still, it
does seem a great pity that we can’t do anything for him--that all our
efforts should have been for nothing.”
“Yes, it does seem a great pity,” the Camera Chap agreed. “Tell me,
Miss Throgmorton,” he said with apparent irrelevancy, “do you happen
to know what is the matter with Captain Reyes’ eyes? I saw him on the
Avenida Bolivar to-day, and he was wearing spectacles with thick blue
lenses.”
Virginia frowned, as though she resented this evident attempt on his
part to change the subject. “Yes, I have seen them,” she replied
coldly, “I met him this morning as he was returning from the oculist.
He had been complaining of weak eyes for some time, and yesterday the
specialist ordered those glasses. But what has that got to do with poor
President Felix?”
“Nothing, of course,” Hawley answered with a queer smile. “Nothing
whatever. I was merely curious about those blue spectacles.”