“Good stuff!” Paxton approved. “If we had photographic evidence the United States would be in a position to intervene, and demand Felix’s immediate release. That, of course, would mean the finish of Portiforo, and I happen to know that there are reasons why Washington wouldn’t be exactly sorry to see a change in the government of Baracoa. But I say, old man,” he added anxiously, “do you appreciate the magnitude of the job you’re tackling? Do you realize the danger?” “Surely I do,” Hawley answered. “The president warned me that I would have to be very careful--that if the story happened to be true, and Portiforo should find out the object of my trip to Baracoa, the consequences would be serious. They would probably seek to remove the evidence--by murdering poor Felix before I had a chance to get to him.” Paxton frowned. “Yes, I have no doubt they would do that. They would make short work of Felix. But I wasn’t referring to him; I was thinking of what might happen to you if they were to nab you in the act of trying to get that snapshot.” His tone was very grave. “I am afraid, old man, that they would stand you up against a stone wall, with a handkerchief around your eyes and spray you with lead from their guns.” The Camera Chap laughed. “Not as bad as that, I guess. A dungeon cell and a ball and chain would be about the limit.” “I’m not so sure,” Paxton muttered. “What protection does the president promise you in case you are caught?” “He didn’t promise me any protection,” the Camera Chap replied cheerfully. “On the contrary, he gave me clearly to understand that I am going into this thing at my own risk. He explained that if I am apprehended in the act of violating any of the laws of a friendly nation, the United States government wouldn’t have any right to intervene.” “I thought so,” growled Paxton. “Why the deuce couldn’t he have given this job to a secret-service man instead of you?” “I didn’t ask him that,” Hawley answered, smiling. “But don’t worry, Tom. I’m going to get along all right. They’re not going to catch me, you know.” The managing editor shook his head forebodingly. “I’ve a good mind to refuse you that leave of absence,” he said. “I’d do it, too, if I didn’t know that you’d go, anyway--and if you were working for anybody else but the President of the United States. When do you expect to start?” “To-morrow. The _Colombia_, of the Andean line, sails for South American waters at two p. m. I’ve engaged passage on her.” “You’re certainly not losing any time,” Paxton chuckled. “Would you like me to send somebody along to help you, old man? You can have the pick of our staff.” The Camera Chap declined this offer. “I’m ever so much obliged,” he said, “but I have decided that I had better work alone. It seems to me that this is one of those cases where one head will be better than two.” He extended his hand. “Good-by, Tom. I’ll trot along. I’ve got to go home and pack my trunk.”