He went down into the lobby and tore Jack Paddock away from the side of one of the Omaha beauties. Mr. Paddock was resplendent in evening clothes, and thoughtful, for on the morrow Mrs. Bruce was to give an important luncheon.
"Jack," Minot said, "I'm going to confide in you. I'm going to tell you why I am in San Marco."
"Unbare your secrets," Paddock answered.
Crossing the quiet plaza Minot explained to his friend the matter of the insurance policy written by the romantic Jephson in New York. He told of how he had come south with the promise to his employer that Miss Cynthia Meyrick would change her mind only over his dead body. Incredulous exclamations broke from the flippant Paddock as he listened.
"Knowing your love of humor," Minot said, "I hasten to add the crowning touch. The moment I saw Cynthia Meyrick I realized that if I couldn't marry her myself life would be an uninteresting blank forever after. Every time I've seen her since I've been surer of it. What's the answer, Jack?"
Paddock whistled.
"Delicious," he cried. "Pardon me—I'm speaking as a rank outsider. She is a charming girl. And you adore her! Bless my soul, how the plot does thicken! Why don't you resign, you idiot?"
"My first idea. Tried it, and it wouldn't work. Besides, if I did resign, I couldn't stick around and queer Jephson's chances—even supposing she'd listen to my pleading, which she wouldn't."
"Children, see the very Christian martyr! If it was me I'd chuck the job and elope with—oh, no, you couldn't do that, of course. It would be a low trick. You are in a hole, aren't you?"
"Five million fathoms deep. There's nothing to do but see the wedding through. And you're going to help me. Just now, Mr. Manuel Gonzale has a packet of love-letters written by Harrowby in his salad days, which he proposes to print on the morrow unless he is paid not to to-night. You and I are on our way to take 'em away from him."