But one evening, as the vessel was approaching the hilly coast line of Baracoa, a steward handed him a note. The missive was in a woman’s handwriting, and although it bore no signature he guessed at once from whom it had come. It was short--merely a couple of lines stating that the writer would appreciate it very much if Mr. Hawley would make it a point to be on the promenade deck after eleven o’clock that night. Guessing whom he would meet there if he kept this appointment, the Camera Chap’s first thought was to ignore the summons. But upon reflection, he changed his mind. “It would be a pretty shabby way to act,” he told himself. “Besides, I’m too curious to know what she wants of me to be able to resist the temptation. I’ll take a chance--provided I can dodge that infernal busybody with the gumshoes. I’m afraid I can’t afford to keep the appointment if he’s going to be there. However, I think I’ll be able to get rid of him.” That evening most of the passengers retired unusually early. The _Colombia_ was to dock at sunrise the following morning, and everybody, even those who were not going ashore, desired to be awake early to get the first sight of land. At nine-thirty, as the orchestra finished its final selections, Hawley exchanged “Good night” with several of his acquaintances, and went to his stateroom. A few minutes later, Señor José Lopez came down the corridor with his noiseless, catlike tread, and stood listening intently outside the Camera Chap’s door. The latter grinned as he heard the eavesdropper’s soft breathing. He was aware of the fact that his neighbor across the hall paid him this attention each night, never going to bed until he had made sure that Hawley had retired. That cautious young man now went through the formality of disrobing. Señor Lopez heard the thud of his shoes as he allowed them to drop noisily to the floor. Shortly afterward there was the click of the electric light being switched off, and soon after that a sound like a buzz saw in action satisfied the eavesdropper that the occupant of the room was well settled in the land of dreams. Then Lopez stole across the corridor to his own stateroom, and turned in with an easy mind. A little more than an hour later the Camera Chap arose, dressed himself in the dark, and, with his feet incased in a pair of tennis shoes, emerged from his stateroom, and moved along the corridor with a secrecy which would have done credit to Lopez himself. When he reached the promenade deck and strode past the long row of empty chairs, there was not a person to be seen. He was beginning to wonder if he were not the victim of a practical joke, when suddenly he espied a shrouded figure, which looked almost ghostly in the moonlight, coming toward him. With a cautious glance behind him, he stepped forward to meet her.