They looked up suddenly ten minutes later to find a man standing between them. He was a little man, clad all in white, suit, shoes, stockings. His sly old face was a lemon yellow, and his eyes suggested lights flaming in the dark woods at night.
"Beg pardon," said the little man.
"Ah, and what can we do for you?" inquired O'Neill.
Nothing. Mr. Mears? Mr. Elliott?"
"Gone. Vamosed. You are now speaking to the managing editor of the Mail."
"Ah. Indeed?"
"We are very busy. If you'll just tell me what you want—"
"I merely dropped in. I am Manuel Gonzale, owner of the Mail."
"Good lord!" cried O'Neill.
"Do not be disturbed. I take it you gentlemen have replaced Mears and Elliott. I am glad. Let them go. You look like bright young men to me—quite bright enough. I employ you."
"Thanks," stammered the managing editor.
"Don't mention it. Here is Madame On Dit's
