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.”