"Write, man, write," said Howe. The clatter of their fingers on the keys filled the room.
They looked up suddenly ten minutes later to find a man standing between them. He was a little man, clad all in white, suit, shoes, stockings. His sly old face was a lemon yellow, and his eyes suggested lights flaming in the dark woods at night.
"Beg pardon," said the little man.
"Ah, and what can we do for you?" inquired O'Neill.
"Nothing. Mr. Mears? Mr. Elliott?"
"Gone. Vamosed. You are now speaking to the managing editor of the Mail."
"Ah. Indeed?"
"We are very busy. If you'll just tell me what you want—"
"I merely dropped in. I am Manuel Gonzale, owner of the Mail."
"Good lord!" cried O'Neill.