"Been looking all about for you, sir," he announced. "'Is lordship wishes to see you at once—most h'important."
"More trouble, Minot," was Lord Harrowby's gloomy greeting. "Sit down, old chap. Just had a very nasty visitor."
"Sorry to hear it."
Little brown monkey of a man—Manuel Gonzale, proprietor of the San Marco Mail. I say, old boy, there's a syllable missing in the name of that paper. Do you get me?"
"You mean it should be the San Marco Blackmail? Pretty good, Harrowby, pretty good." And Minot added to himself "for you."
"That's exactly what I do mean. Gabrielle has sold out her bunch of letters to Mr. Gonzale. And it appears from the chap's sly hints that unless I pay him ten thousand dollars before midnight, the best of those letters will be in to-morrow's Mail."
"He's got his nerve—working a game like that," said Minot.
"Nerve—not at all," replied Harrowby. "He's as safe as a child in its own nursery. He knows
