"Um—but if I help you in this I'll be doing you a mean trick. Can't quite make out, old boy, whether to stand by you in a business or a personal way."
"You're going to stand by me in a business way. I want you along to-night to lend your moral support while I throttle that little blackmailer.".
"Ay, ay, sir. I've been hearing some things about Gonzale myself. Go to it!"
They groped about in a dark hallway hunting the Mail office.
"Shady are the ways of journalism," commented Paddock. "By the way, I've just thought of one for Mrs. Bruce to spring to-morrow. In case we fail and the affinity letters are published, she might say that Harrowby's epistles got into the Mail once too often. It's only a rough idea—ah—I see you don't like it. Well, here's success to our expedition."
They opened the door of the Mail office. Mr. O'Neill sat behind a desk, the encyclopedia before him, seeking lively material for the morrow's issue. Mr. Howe hammered at a typewriter. Both of the newspaper men looked up at the intrusion.
"Ah, gentlemen," said O'Neill, coming forward. "What can I do for you?"
"Who are you?" Minot asked.
"What? Can it be? Is my name not a household word in San Marco? I am managing editor of the Mail." His eyes lighted on Mr. Paddock's giddy attire. "We can't possibly let you give a ball here to-night, if that's what you want."
"Very humorous," said Minot. "But our wants are far different. I won't beat around the bush. You have some letters here written by a friend of mine to a lady he adored—at the moment. You are going to print them in to-morrow's Mail unless my friend is easy enough to pay you ten thousand dollars. He isn't going to pay you anything. We've come for those letters—and we'll get them or run you and your boss out of town in twenty-four hours—you raw little blackmailers!"