Captain Cortrell’s face lighted up. “Have you brought it?” he demanded eagerly.
“I have brought the plate. I haven’t had a chance to develop it yet, so I don’t know how it turned out, but I generally have pretty good luck with flash lights. Don’t happen to have a photographic dark room aboard, do you, captain?”
The naval officer shook his head. “I guess we could fix you up a dark room easily enough, but we haven’t the materials for developing a negative, if that’s what you mean. I’m sorry that we haven’t,” he added, “for I don’t mind confessing, Mr. Hawley, that I am impatient to see your picture.”
“I will go ashore at once, develop the plate, and bring you back a print,” the Camera Chap promised. “I have a complete outfit in my room at the hotel. But in the meantime, captain,” he added anxiously, “if you have any instructions which concern me—as I feel confident you have——”
Captain Cortrell cut him short with a curt gesture. “Go ahead and get your plate developed,” he said gruffly. “Whatever instructions I may have concerning you, sir, cannot be discussed until you have brought me the snapshot—a finished picture, not an invisible negative.”
“But it isn’t safe to wait until then. I am afraid you may be too late,” the Camera Chap protested.
“Too late for what, sir?”
“To save President Felix. If you don’t act promptly, I am afraid they will assassinate him. Every minute counts now.”
A slightly bewildered expression came to the naval officer’s face. His demeanor aroused Hawley’s indignation. The latter suspected that his air of mystification was feigned, that his attitude must be due to an excess of caution.
“See here, Captain Cortrell!” he exclaimed impatiently; “there’s no sense in our playing at cross-purposes with each other. There isn’t time for anything of that sort. I am quite sure that you know who sent me to Baracoa, and what I am doing here——”