The cell in which the Camera Chap was confined did not exactly measure up to the standard of luxury of a first-class hotel. The floor was of cement, hard and cold, and had every appearance of not having been cleaned since the place was built. There was no furniture, save a rusty iron cot which was attached to the wall. This couch, which was supposed to serve both as bed and chair, was without pillow or mattress. If the prisoner wished to sleep he would have to get used to stretching himself on the unyielding iron slats. But these physical discomforts did not appear to have a depressing effect upon the present occupant of the dungeon, judging by the cheerful smile with which he greeted Lopez when the latter stepped softly up to the bars. “I suppose here’s where I get a chance to study at first-hand the Baracoan method of administering the third degree,” he remarked carelessly. The visitor shrugged his shoulders. “I desire merely to ask Señor Hawley a few questions,” he announced. “I hope for his sake that he will find it convenient to answer them.” “Well, you might submit a sample question,” the prisoner replied. “I’ll be able to tell you better, then, what chance you stand of having your curiosity satisfied.” Lopez bowed. “To begin with, what have you done with the picture you took to-night?” “Why, it seems to me that you can answer that question yourself. I saw you take the plate from the table and put it in your pocket before your army took me out of the room.” His visitor looked at him searchingly. “You refer to the plate that was spoiled, señor? Was that the only snapshot you took?” “It was, on my word of honor,” Hawley answered with intense earnestness. He had no wish to evade this question; on the contrary he was most anxious to have his interrogator know that there was no other picture. “And this spoiled plate--what does it represent? If Señor Hawley had been successful with his camera what would the plate have shown?” The Camera Chap smiled. “It seems to me that you’re asking a hypothetical question,” he said. “Yes, decidely hypothetical.” Lopez shrugged his expressive shoulders again. “It is Señor Hawley’s privilege to answer or not as he sees fit, but,” he added, “I must warn him that if he refuses to tell why he went to the fortress to-night we shall be compelled to draw our own conclusions from his silence.” “That’ll be all right,” Hawley rejoined cheerfully. “Have you any objections to dropping me a hint as to what those conclusions may be?” “Not the slightest. Unless the señor is prepared to give us an explanation more favorable to himself we shall assume that he went there to get photographs of the fortifications--that he is a spy in the service of the insurrectos.”