O'Neill sat behind a desk, the encyclopedia before him, seeking lively material for the morrow's issue. Mr. Howe hammered at a type-writer. Both of the newspaper men looked up at the intrusion.
"Ah, gentlemen," said O'Neill, coming forward. "What can I do for you?"
"Who are you?" Minot asked.
"What? Can it be? Is my name not a household word in San Marco? I am managing editor of the Mail." His eyes lighted on Mr. Paddock's giddy attire. "We can't possibly let you give a ball here to-night, if that's what you want."
"Very humorous," said Minot. "But our wants are far different. I won't beat around the bush. You have some letters here written by a friend of mine to a lady he adored—at the moment. You are going to print them in to-morrow's Mail unless my friend is easy enough to pay you ten thousand dollars. He isn't going to pay you anything. We've come for those letters—and we'll get them or run you and your boss out of town in twenty-four hours—you raw little blackmailers!"
