Old Meyrick leaped to his feet.
"Very good," he cried. "Come on."
"One thing more," continued the crafty Gonzale. "It may pay you to note—we are watched. Even now. All the way to the bank and thence to the office of the Mail—we will be watched. Should any accident, now unforeseen, happen to me, that issue of the Mail will go on sale in five minutes all over San Marco."
Spencer Meyrick stood glaring down at the little man in white. His enthusiasm of a moment ago for the journey vanished. However, the head-lines of the Mail were staring up at him from the bench. He stooped, pocketed the paper, and growled:
"I understand. Come on!"
There must be some escape. The trap seemed absurdly simple. Across the hotel lawn, down the hot avenue, in the less hot plaza, Meyrick sought a way. A naturally impulsive man, he had difficulty restraining himself. But he thought of his daughter, whose happiness was more than money in his eyes.
No way offered. At the counter of the tiny bank Meyrick stood writing his check, Gonzale at his elbow. Suddenly behind them the screen door slammed, and a wild-eyed man with flaming red hair rushed in.
"What is it you want?" Gonzale screamed.
"Out of my way, Don Quixote," cried the red-topped one. "I'm a windmill and my arms breathe death. Are you Mr. Meyrick? Well, tear up that check!"
"Gladly," said Meyrick. "Only—"