CHAPTER XXXIV.BLUE SPECTACLES.
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 thetrick 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, theNewsman 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?”
TheNewsman 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 thesteamship 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 inhis 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, Ridderannouncing 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 youthat 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.”