The señora shook her head. “That was one of the reasons I felt it necessary to have this talk with you. I, too, am uneasy about that young man. In spite of his interference in my behalf this afternoon, I have reason to suspect that he belongs to our enemies.”
Her companion frowned. “Would you mind telling me your reasons for thinking that, señora?” he asked.
“The first time I noticed him was in New York, several days ago,” the woman explained. “It was that day I visited your headquarters. You remember my telling you that I had been followed?”
The man nodded. “That was the time you worked that clever trick with the taxicab,” he said, with a smile. “But I understood you to say that it was Lopez who was shadowing you?”
“There were two of them. Lopez was in one cab, but there was another taxi behind his. It contained that young American. I had previously noticed him watching me as I came out of the Mammoth.”
Her companion uttered a sharp exclamation.
“And that wasn’t the only time,” the señora went on. “I saw him in Washington, the day before he sailed. I was driving in Pennsylvania Avenue, and I noticed him on the sidewalk. That may have been a coincidence, of course, but I am afraid not. I noticed that he was observing me very closely. And then, again, he came on board this ship at exactly the same time I did. He was close behind me as I walked up the gangplank. All of which leads me to believe that he is on this vessel for the purpose of spying upon us. I have had Celeste make inquiries about him, and she has learned that he is a New Yorker named Hawley. He claims to be an artist on his way to Baracoa to paint some landscapes, but I am sure that that is only a bluff. The man is one of Portiforo’s spies.”
Her companion smiled. “You are mistaken about that, señora. I, too, have been making inquiries about this young man. I was fortunate enough to get hold of a fellow passenger, an American, who could tell me all about him. He is not connected with Portiforo—but he is just as dangerous to us as if such were the case.”
“Who is he?” the señora asked quickly.
“Hawley is his right name, and, as he has said, he is an artist. But he does not wield a brush. He makes his pictures with a camera. He is a newspaper photographer—on the staff of the New York Sentinel.”