me introduce ourselves." And he mentioned his own name and Howe's.
"Call me Mears," said the bearded one. "I'm managing editor of the Mail. And this is my city editor, Mr. Elliott"
"Delighted," breathed O'Neill. "A pleasant little haven you have found here. And your staff—I don't see the members of your staff running in and out?"
"Mr. O'Neill," said Mears impressively, "you have drunk with the staff of the Mail."
"You two?" O'Neill's face shone with joy. "Glory be—do you hear that, Harry? These gentlemen all alone on the premises." He leaned over, and poured out eloquently the story of the tragic flight from Mobile. "I call this luck," he finished. "Here we are, broke, eager for work. And we find you minus a—"
O'Neill stopped. For he had seen a sickly smile of derision float across the face of the weary city editor. And he saw the bearded man shaking his great head violently.
"Nothing doing," said the bearded man firmly.
