A launch from the Kearsarge was waiting at the wharf as the girl stepped from the automobile and went down to the water’s edge. She inquired of one of the crew whether the captain was on board the warship, and, receiving an affirmative response, requested to be taken out to him immediately.
Captain Cortrell received her with a grim smile. “I can guess the object of your visit, Miss Throgmorton,” he said sadly. “But I regret to say that I am powerless to do anything in behalf of—— Why, what is this?” He stared in astonishment at the picture the girl had handed him.
“Who sent this photograph?” he demanded, an eager expression on his weather-beaten face.
“Mr. Hawley,” she answered. “He couldn’t bring it himself,” she explained with a smile, “so I undertook to be his messenger. I was in hopes that it might alter the situation so far as he is concerned.”
Without an apology, the battleship’s commander turned from her and disappeared inside his cabin, leaving Virginia standing outside. He opened a drawer of his desk, and took therefrom the bulky envelope that contained his sealed orders.
When he returned to Virginia, a few minutes later, his face was wreathed in smiles. “You were right, Miss Throgmorton,” he said, “in assuming that the picture you have brought me from Mr. Hawley would alter the situation. It has changed matters considerably.”
CHAPTER XLV.
TWO LACONIC ORDERS.
While the American minister’s daughter was visiting the Kearsarge’s commander, Señor Lopez was dashing back to the capital, working the motor of his car to its utmost capacity in his desire to get there as soon as possible. He had watched the girl go aboard the warship, and then he had proceeded to the fortress. What he learned there had caused him to realize the necessity of reaching the palace without delay.
President Portiforo was in consultation with his cabinet when the spy reached the palace. They were discussing a dispatch which had recently arrived, and that the missive contained news of a startling character was evident from the worried, scared expression on the countenance of the chief executive of Baracoa.
“The report seems incredible,” Portiforo declared, his voice quavering. “If it is true—and I suppose there can be no doubt of that—I must admit that thing looks bad—exceedingly bad. Villa’s defeat is a blow we can scarcely hope to survive. There is now practically nothing to keep Rodriguez from reaching the capital. By forced marches he ought to be here within another twenty-four hours.” A sickly smile creased his face. “By this time to-morrow the crowds on the street will shout: ‘Viva el Presidente Rodriguez!’ It looks to me, gentlemen, as if the time had come for us to take a little trip abroad for the benefit of our health.”