Bates smiled. “There’s a woman with a history,” he said. “She is Señora Francisco Felix, wife of the former president of the Republic of Baracoa. You remember reading about him, of course?” “Oh, yes. He’s the chap who disappeared a couple of years ago.” “Disappeared is a gentle way of putting it,” returned the other, grinning. “He sneaked away in his private yacht, one memorable night, and the good people of Baracoa awoke next morning to find that they were minus a president, and incidentally the greater part of the national treasury. The scamp took away with him every bolivar he could lay hands on. The little republic would have gone bankrupt if General Portiforo hadn’t stepped in and saved the situation.” Hawley nodded. “Yes, I remember. What is his wife doing in Washington?” “She’s been living here ever since her husband absconded. I guess she didn’t find it exactly comfortable in Baracoa after the scandal. She and Mrs. Cooper are great friends; they’ve known each other since they were girls. The señora was educated in the United States; I believe she and the attorney general’s wife were in the same class at Vassar. She--why, what’s the matter, old man?” Hawley had given vent to a sharp exclamation, at the same time gripping his companion’s arm excitedly. “Did you notice that swarthy chap in the taxicab which just passed?” he asked. “The fellow with a beard? Yes. What about him?” “Don’t happen to know who he is, do you?” Bates shook his head. “I suppose he’s connected with one of the Spanish-American embassies. There are so many of those fellows running around Washington that it isn’t possible for us to know them all. Why the interest in him?” “This isn’t the first time I have seen him. I saw him in New York a couple of weeks ago. He was shadowing Señora Felix.” “Señora Felix!” “Yes; this is not the first time I’ve seen her, either, although I did not know who she was until now. The other day, Bates, I witnessed a queer incident outside the Hotel Mammoth. I was passing there just as that woman came out of the Thirty-fourth Street entrance and entered a taxicab. My attention was attracted to her not only because of her striking beauty, but because of the nervousness she displayed. As she stepped into the cab she kept glancing about her in all directions, as though aware that she was being watched. As she drove off I noticed a man skulking in the doorway of a store on the opposite side of the street. It was that same dark-skinned, bearded chap who just passed us. I saw him hurry across the street and rush up to another taxi that was waiting at the cab stand. I heard him instruct the driver to follow the woman’s cab, no matter where it went. He spoke in English, but with a decidedly foreign accent. My curiosity was aroused, and I decided to see the thing out. I, too, jumped into a taxi and joined in the procession.