column for to-morrow. It runs on the first page. As for the rest of the paper, suit yourselves."
O'Neill took the copy, and glanced through it.
"Are there no libel laws down here?" he asked.
"The material in that column," said the little man, his eyes narrowing, "concerns only me. You must understand that at once."
"The Madame writes hot stuff," ventured O'Neill.
"I am the Madame," said the owner of the Mail with dignity.
He removed the copy from O'Neill's hand, and glided with it into the other room. Scarcely had he disappeared when the door was opened furiously and a panting man stood inside. Mr. Henry Trimmer's keen eye surveyed the scene.
"Where's Mears—Elliott?" he cried.
"You're not the cashier, are you?" asked O'Neill with interest.
"Don't try to be funny," roared Trimmer. "I'm looking for the editor of this paper."
"Your search is ended," O'Neill replied. "What is it?"
