"Well, I'm sorry," said Minot, "but I don't understand these heroics."
"It's all up now, Harry," moaned O'Neill. "The free trial is over and we've got to send the mattress back to the factory. Here in this hollow lotus land, ever to live and lie reclined—I was putting welcome on the mat for a fate like that. Back to the road for us. That human fish over in the Chronicle office was a prophet—'You look unlucky—maybe they'll give you jobs on the Mail.' Remember."
"Cool off, Bob," Howe said. He turned to Minot and Paddock. "Of course you don't understand. You see, we're strangers here. Drifted in last night broke and hungry, looking for jobs. We got them—under rather unusual circumstances. Things looked suspicious—the proprietor parted with money without screaming for help, and no regular newspaper is run like that. But—when you're down and out, you know—"
"I understand," said Minot, smiling. "And I'm sorry I called you what I did. I apologize. And I hate to be a—er—a killjoy. But as a matter of fact, your employer is a blackmailer, and it's best you should know it."
"Yes," put in Paddock. "Do you gentlemen happen to have heard where the editor of Mr. Gonzale's late newspaper, published in Havana, is now?"
"We do not," said O'Neill, "but maybe you'll tell us."
"I will. He's in prison, doing ten years for blackmail. I understand that Mr. Gonzale prefers to involve his editors, rather than himself."
O'Neill came over and held out his hand to Minot.
"Shake, son," he said. "Thank God I didn't waste my strength on you. Gonzale will be in here in a minute—"
"About those letters?" Howe inquired.