“That’s easily explained,” he rejoined coolly. “He sold the letters to my paper. He didn’t dare sell them to his own, for fear that if he did the crime would be traced straight to him. A fellow with as little conscience as he has wouldn’t hesitate to scoop his own sheet in order to make a few dollars. If you don’t think he was the thief,” he added audaciously, “who do you suppose was?” “If I wished to name the thief, I feel confident that I could do so,” Virginia returned disdainfully. Gale’s expression was one of injured innocence. “From your tone, I almost think that you suspect me,” he said. “That’s pretty tough, Virginia--giving that crook the benefit of the doubt in preference to me. Since you persist in being so cruel,” he went on plaintively, “I am almost glad to go back to New York. Without your friendship, San Cristobal is a dull burg.” His eyes gleamed spitefully. “My only regret at having to leave Baracoa at this time is that I shan’t be here to see that rascally Camera Chap stood up in front of a firing squad.” With this kindly remark he went out to see about booking his passage home. As he drew near the steamship office he received the greatest surprise of his life. Two men were just coming out of the place. One of them wore the uniform of a lieutenant in the United States navy. The other, who was in civilian garb, was a tall, slim young man whose pale face offered a striking contrast to his companion’s ruddy countenance. Gale stared at the latter with as much amazement as if he had been gazing upon a ghost, and his surprise was not diminished when the tall man, recognizing him, came eagerly toward him with his hand outstretched and a smile upon his lips. “I want to thank you, old man, for what you’ve done for me,” he said warmly. “Thank you!” the reporter couldn’t help exclaiming blankly. “I understand that it is largely to you that I owe my freedom. It was mighty white of you, Gale, to go to Portiforo on my behalf. I shan’t forget it in a hurry.” Gale felt somewhat uncomfortable, suspecting that what he heard must be irony. But there was no mistaking the sincerity of the other’s manner, and, as soon as he was convinced of this, the _News_ man grasped the outstretched hand with well-simulated cordiality. He was greatly puzzled by this queer situation, but, possessing remarkable rallying powers, he quickly recovered his self-possession. “Don’t mention it, Hawley, old fellow,” he said, “I am glad to see you free. Who told you that I had a hand in getting you out?” he inquired, his manner implying that he would greatly have preferred to have his good act shrouded in anonymity. “Portiforo told me,” was the amazing answer. “The deuce!” Gale muttered. “I can’t understand why he should have told you that?” “Isn’t it true?” the other exclaimed, in an astonished tone.