"About those letters?" Howe inquired.
"Yes," said Minot. "They were written to a Gaiety actress by a man who is in San Marco for his wedding next Tuesday—Lord Harrowby."
"His ludship again," O'Neill remarked. "Say, I always thought the South was democratic."
"Well," said Howe, "we owe you fellows something for putting us wise. We've stood for a good deal, but never for blackmailing. As a matter of fact, Gonzale hasn't brought the letters in yet, but he's due at any minute. When he comes—take the letters away from him. I shan't interfere. How about you, Bob?"
"I'll interfere," said O'Neill, "and I'll interfere strong—if I think you fellows ain't leaving enough of little Manuel for me to caress—"
The door opened, and the immaculate proprietor of the Mail came noiselessly into the room. His eyes narrowed when they fell on the strangers there.
"Are you Manuel Gonzale?" Minot demanded.
"I—I am." The sly little eyes darted everywhere.
