"Man! Man! You're wasting time," O'Neill cried.
"Excuse me," smiled Minot. "Unintentional, I assure you." He seized the little Spaniard suddenly by the collar. "We're here for Lord Harrowby's letters," he said. His other hand began a rapid search of Manuel Gonzale's pockets.
"Let me go, you thief," screamed the proprietor of the Mail. He squirmed and fought. "Let me go!" He writhed about to face his editors. "You fools! What are you doing, standing there? Help me—help—"
"We're waiting," said O'Neill. "Waiting for our turn. Remember your promise, son. Enough of him left for me."
Minot and his captive slid back and forth across the floor. The three others watched, O'Neill in high glee.
"Go to it!" he cried. "That's Madame On Dit you're waltzing with. I speak for the next dance, Madame."
Mr. Minot's eager hand came away from the Spaniard's inner waistcoat pocket, and in it was a packet of perfumed letters, tied with a cute blue ribbon. He released his victim.
"Sorry to be so impolite," he said. "But I had to have these to-night."
Gonzale turned on him with an evil glare.
"Thief!" he cried. "I'll have the law on you for this."