“Why, Mr. Gale!” Miss Throgmorton cried indignantly. “You know very well he didn’t do anything of the sort. The man was intoxicated, and he didn’t do anything except call Portiforo names. Surely you are not going to send your paper such an exaggerated account!”
“I am positive I saw something in his hand that looked like a bomb. He was just about to throw it when they grabbed him,” insisted Gale, according to whose code of journalistic ethics it was always justifiable to “color” a story, provided one could get away with it. “So long, folks. I’ll be back in a little while,” he said, as he walked off.
The Camera Chap was grateful for this unlooked-for opportunity to speak to the girl alone. “I must have a talk with you, Miss Throgmorton,” he began, in an eager whisper; “but not here. There is too much danger of our being overheard. I hope you will not consider me presumptuous, but it is really very important. Isn’t there some place near here where we can talk in safety?”
The girl nodded. “The Botanical Gardens are only a short distance from here,” she suggested. “They will be deserted now; every one is on the street watching the parade. I, too, am anxious to have a talk with you; in fact, even if we hadn’t met now, I was going to make it a point to communicate with you and arrange a meeting. I have a message for you—from a mutual friend.”
Hawley smiled. He thought he could come pretty near guessing the identity of the sender of the message. “Don’t say any more about it now,” he warned her hastily. “Wait until we reach the gardens.”
They forced their way to the rear of the throng on the sidewalk, and a few minutes later were strolling along the graceful walks of the Botanical Gardens, which, although usually crowded at that hour of the day, were now, as the girl had surmised, as desolate as a desert island.
“Did I understand Gale to say that he is stopping at your house?” Hawley began abruptly.
“Yes; he is spending his vacation with us. My father has taken a great fancy to him. When dad was a deputy police commissioner in New York, Mr. Gale wrote some very flattering things about him in the News, and he has never forgotten it. Dad just hates to have the newspapers publish nice things about him,” she added, with a laugh.
“I don’t care very much for Mr. Gale myself,” she added frankly. “In fact, I do not like him at all. When he first came to us I did. I was so favorably impressed with him that I was on the point of taking him into my confidence about—poor President Felix.”
Although her words greatly interested the Camera Chap, his face was as a mask. “President Felix?” he repeated, with an interrogative inflection.