Miss Hathaway laughs, a trifle nervously. “Perhaps it is rather an odd place to go this spring, and while I had a great desire to visit the country I really had no serious idea of gratifying the wish. But one evening while I was thinking of the matter, Mr. Felton suddenly asked me how I would like to go to Cuba. I said I would be delighted to go to escape the chill winds of March, and to my great surprise he suggested that we make preparations and start at once for New York. So here we are, and on Saturday we sail for tropic climes. But do you think there is any danger to Americans traveling in Cuba? I thought—I had read—that the disturbances were limited to some of the far inland districts and that there was no trouble in Havana and the larger cities.”
Ashley pulls his mustache thoughtfully. “No, I do not see how there can be possible danger for you,” he says at last. “Be sure, to avoid any possible annoyance, to get your passports before leaving New York. By Jove,” he murmurs under his breath, “if the Hemisphere should send a man to Cuba, and I that man—well, that wouldn’t be half-bad.”
“But why should Mr. Felton desire to go to Cuba?” Ashley asks. “I fancied all his interests were in Vermont.”
“He says that he has some property that requires his attention there, a sugar plantation, I fancy, or something of the sort. Anyway, he is quite anxious to go.”
A sugar plantation in Cuba! Jack draws a long breath and his active mind reverts to his interview with Don Manada. Felton-Alvarez of the captain-general’s staff, a young American planter! The son has evidently forsworn his country and by joining the Spanish army has become a Spanish citizen. Therefore he undoubtedly cannot be extradited. But the father?
“How long does Mr. Felton contemplate remaining in Cuba?” Ashley asks, carelessly.
“That will depend upon his inclinations and the condition of his business affairs.”
“That means indefinitely,” Jack thinks. “Cyrus Felton must not go to Cuba!” Then aloud: “Miss Hathaway, pardon me if I revive unpleasant memories, but the deep personal interest I took in the case must be my apology. Have you heard from your sister—since—since the tragedy?”
For a moment Miss Hathaway is silent, her face clouding with the sad thoughts of that last fateful Memorial Day. “Mr. Ashley,” she says at last, looking him full in the face, “I have received two letters from my sister Helen. She is well, and I trust happy. She was married in this city the day after they—she—left Raymond.”
“To Derrick Ames?”