Just as the steamship _Eldorado_, bound for New York, was about to
leave her dock at Puerto Cabero, a touring car with a closed top
dashed up to the wharf, and two women alighted and went aboard the
ship. One of this pair, whose slender form was clad in black, wore a
heavy veil which concealed her features, but Hawley, who was standing
near the gangway when they arrived, gave a start of surprise. Despite
the veil, he recognized the women as Señora Felix and her maid. The
Camera Chap had not heard that the wife of the ex-president was to be
among his fellow passengers. Later on, he learned that her departure
from her native land was not a voluntary act. Her husband’s successor
to the presidency had sent her a curt notice the day before that the
government of Baracoa expected her to sail on the _Eldorado_, and that
if she saw fit to disappoint the government’s expectation in this
respect, she might have to stand trial on the painful charge of being
in league with the government’s enemies.
Although Hawley did not know at the time that the unfortunate woman was
an exile, he could see from the way in which her slender form trembled
that she was under stress of great emotion, and his heart was filled
with sympathy for her, but although she passed close to where he was
standing, he did not attempt to address her or even to salute her. He
was keenly alive to the fact that he was an object of close scrutiny
from several keen-eyed swarthy men who stood on the pier, and he
realized the great necessity of treating the señora as a total stranger
while they were looking on. But later, as the boat was passing out of
the bay, and the Camera Chap stood against the rail of the promenade
deck, gazing with mixed sensations at the grim, gray walls of El Torro
fortress, he became suddenly aware that somebody was standing close
beside him, and, turning, discovered Señora Felix.
The woman leaned over the rail, and her eyes were fixed yearningly on
the fortress. She had raised her veil, and the sympathetic young man
beside her could see the tears running down her haggard face. A sound
as though she were choking came from her throat.
They were all alone. The rest of the passengers were on the other side
of the deck absorbed in watching and waving salutes to the American
battleship, which was an object of greater interest to them than
the fortress. Under cover of this privacy, the Camera Chap thought
there would be no harm in whispering a word of comfort to his unhappy
neighbor. But, to his amazement, at the first sound of his voice,
she wheeled on him with the fury of a tigress. “You!” she cried, her
eyes blazing, her voice quavering with rage. “How dare you presume to
address me after what you have done? Are you so lacking in shame, sir,
that you would intrude upon the grief of a woman whose nearest and
dearest you and your selfish government have murdered?”
“My dear señora!” the president’s photographic envoy protested gently.
“Yes, murdered!” the frantic woman repeated fiercely, paying no heed
to his interruption. “Your intolerable interference amounts to that.
Things were bad enough before you came to Baracoa, at least, there was
some hope then. But now--now----” Her voice broke, and she covered her
face with her hands.
“My dear señora,” the Camera Chap repeated, taking advantage of this
lull in the storm of denunciation, “I regret exceedingly that you
should feel so bitter toward me, for I assure you--empty as the words
may sound--that I would gladly give up my life to serve you and your
husband.”
If the poor woman had been in a saner mood, she would have realized
that the man who uttered these words had already proved the sincerity
of them by the great risk he had run for her cause, but she merely
laughed bitterly.
“Your life, señor!” she cried. “Such a sacrifice as that was not
required of you. All that you were asked to do was to give up your
selfish ambition--to go back to your heartless president and tell
him that the life of a noble man and a woman’s broken heart were far
more important in your eyes than a laurel for your own brow and a
diplomatic triumph for your government. But you refused to listen to
the pleadings of a devoted wife. You persisted in going ahead with your
ruthless, blundering plans, not caring what might happen to your victim
so long as you could boast to the world of your wonderful snapshot
achievement.”
Hawley saw that there was no use in trying to defend himself by
pointing out to her that he had not made his unsuccessful attempt until
he had been led to believe, from his conversation with the commander
of the United States battleship, that the captive of El Torro would be
protected after the snapshot had been taken, and that, moreover, it
was the information which had come to him concerning the precarious
condition of General Replife’s health which had caused him to decide
that desperate measures were absolutely necessary. In her present
mood, he realized, such argument would have been useless. Besides,
his thought was not to defend himself against her bitter accusations.
Big-hearted chap that he was, his sole desire was to comfort her, if
that were possible.
“Tell me, señora,” he begged, after an anxious glance at the group of
passengers crowded against the opposite rail, “do you know definitely
that anything has happened to President Felix, or are you merely giving
expression to your apprehensions?”
Again she laughed bitterly. “Is it not to be taken for granted that
the consequence of your mad act of the other night would be the
assassination of my husband? Do you suppose for a minute that those
ruffians would let him live now that they are aware that their secret
is known?”
“But you do not know of his death?” the Camera Chap persisted. “You
have not actually heard that they have done what you fear?”
She shook her head. “No, I have not heard,” she said wearily. “It is
scarcely to be supposed that they would proclaim their crime to the
whole world. Assassins are not in the habit of advertising their deeds,
señor.”
Her reply relieved him of a great fear which her previous utterances
had created in his mind. “Let us hope that your anxiety is groundless,”
he said soothingly. “I suppose, señora, you have heard the good news
from the hospital. It was announced to-day that the condition of the
minister of war is much improved. He surprised the surgeons by rallying
when they thought there was no hope, and now they say that he is
practically out of danger. And Replife’s life means President Felix’s
life. Now that Portiforo knows that Replife is going to live, he will
not dare resort to assassination.”
The woman refused to be comforted by these arguments. “Who can tell how
far that tyrant will dare to go, now that you have opened his eyes to
the fact that the conspiracy is known?” she asked despairingly. Then
she went below, and Hawley did not see her again for the rest of the
voyage, for she kept to her stateroom, even having her meals served
there. But the next morning her maid handed him a note, the pathetic
contents of which afforded him much satisfaction:
“Please forgive me for my unkindness of yesterday. The sight of that
terrible building, so long the tomb of that poor, noble martyr, made
me beside myself. In my calmer moments I realized that I might have
done you an injustice. I believe that you are brave and generous, and
that possibly what you did you may have thought was for the best.
For the risks that you have run and the sacrifices that you have
made I am not ungrateful; and if, as I cannot help fearing, terrible
consequences to me and mine have been the result of your gallant if
indiscreet attempt, you have my forgiveness, señor.”
“Poor little woman,” said the Camera Chap to himself, as he finished
reading this message of forgiveness. “If only----” His thought was
interrupted by a hand laid on his shoulder. Turning hastily, he looked
into Gale’s grinning countenance.
“A love letter?” the reporter inquired banteringly, pointing to the
note.
“Not exactly,” Hawley replied with a laugh, hastily thrusting the
missive into his pocket.
“Seemed to me that it was a lady’s handwriting,” the _News_ man
remarked.
The Camera Chap frowned. “How do you know that?” he demanded
indignantly. “Did you dare look----” Then he abruptly cut himself
short, resolved not to quarrel with the man to whom, he believed, he
partly owed his freedom, and possibly his life.
“I couldn’t help noticing the handwriting as I accidentally glanced
over your shoulder,” Gale explained.
“You didn’t read the letter, did you?” Hawley inquired. His tone was
anxious, for he had not heard the reporter step up behind him, and,
consequently, had no way of knowing how long he had been there.
“Certainly not,” Gale replied in an aggrieved tone. “Don’t you give me
credit for having any breeding?”
Except for this slightly unpleasant incident, Gale and the Camera Chap
got along well together until the _Eldorado_ stopped at San Juan, Porto
Rico. There the _News_ man made a queer discovery. When the vessel
weighed anchor and started out for her trip to New York, Hawley was
not on board. He had gone ashore, explaining that he desired to make a
purchase, and had mysteriously disappeared.
When the ship’s officers and the other passengers learned of this
disappearance, they were inclined to believe that the snapshot man’s
failure to show up was entirely accidental. But Gale, evidently, was
not of that opinion, for, with a malicious smile on his face, he
hurried to the wireless room and sent off a dispatch. The message was
addressed: “Portiforo, National Palace, San Cristobal,” and ran as
follows:
“Hawley missing at San Juan. Have reason to believe he is on his way
back to Baracoa. Look out for him.
“GALE.”
After sending this warning to the sly fox at Baracoa he felt more
cheerful. He had not a desire in the world to help the president of
the little southern republic in any way; it was entirely his own
satisfaction that was to be furthered by his actions.