In the dark second-floor hallway where the Mail office was suspected of being, they groped about determinedly. No sign of any nature proclaimed San Marco's only morning paper. A solitary light, shining through a transom, beckoned. Boldly O'Neill pushed open the door.
To the knowing nostrils of the two birds of passage was wafted the odor they loved, the unique inky odor of a newspaper shop. Their eyes beheld a rather bare room, a typewriter or two, a desk. In the center of the room was a small table under an electric lamp. On this table was a bottle and glasses, and at it two silent men played poker. One of the men was burly and bearded; the other was slight, pale, nervous. From an inner room came the click of linotypes—lonesome linotypes that seemed to have strayed far from their native haunts.
The two men finished playing the hand, and looked up.
"Good evening," said O'Neill, with a smile that had drawn news as a magnet draws steel in many odd corners. "Gentlemen, four newspaper men meet in a strange land. I perceive you have on the table a greeting unquestionably suitable."
The bearded man laughed, rose and discovered two extra glasses on a near-by shelf.
"Draw up," he said heartily. "The place is yours. You're as welcome as pay-day."
"Thanks." O'Neill reached for a glass. "Let me introduce ourselves." And he mentioned his own name and Howe's.
"Call me Mears," said the bearded one. "I'm managing editor of the Mail. And this is my city editor, Mr. Elliott."
"Delighted," breathed O'Neill. "A pleasant little haven you have found here. And your staff—I don't see the members of your staff running in and out?"
"Mr. O'Neill," said Mears impressively, "you have drunk with the staff of the Mail."