“So this is Señor Hawley,” Portiforo began quizzically, when the Camera Chap’s two guides had conducted him to a position in front of the massive, thronelike chair in which the first gentleman of Baracoa lolled. “So this is the adventurous young man whose discretion, I fear, is not always as great as his valor.” To this the prisoner did not deem it worth while to make any reply. He merely looked straight into the tyrant’s beady eyes, his muscles tense, his mouth set in a straight line. “I am always glad to gaze upon genius,” Portiforo continued, without a vestige of irony in his tone, “and I am informed, Señor Hawley, that you are such a great man in your line that even the President of the United States has honored you by providing work for your camera.” Grasping the significance of this question, and conscious of the fact that the other’s gaze was riveted searchingly upon his face, Hawley was keenly on his guard. “I have had the honor of photographing the President of the United States, if that is what you mean,” he replied coldly. His evident miscomprehension of the question seemed to please Portiforo. “No; that was not quite what I meant,” the latter said, after a slight pause. “However, we will let it go at that. I presume, señor,” he continued, “you are wondering why I sent for you?” The Camera Chap shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps you are in hopes that this summons may mean that, in spite of the seriousness of your offense, you are to receive mercy?” “Mercy!” Hawley exclaimed, with an ironical laugh. “No, I scarcely expect that, sir--after the scene I witnessed in the prison yard this morning. I hardly think you know what mercy means.” Minister Throgmorton’s scowl deepened, but the president’s face did not lose its smile as he turned to the stenographer at the table, who had already started to make a record of the conversation. “I don’t think you need put that down, Garcia,” he said good-humoredly. “I feel confident that Señor Hawley will wish to withdraw that remark later on.” He addressed himself once more to the man before him. “I presume, señor, you refer to the execution of the traitor Bonsal. That was indeed a sad affair, and I regret that you should have been compelled to behold it. I think, however, that you are unjust in calling it an outrage. The unhappy man met only his just deserts. He was found guilty, after a fair trial, of conspiring against the government of his adopted country. His fate was the fate which all traitors must expect.” His small eyes twinkled. “Perhaps, however, you will change your mind about my ignorance of the meaning of the word mercy,” he said dryly, “when I tell you that, in spite of the seriousness of your own offense, I have decided to let you go free.” The Camera Chap gave a start of surprise.