"Proprietor of the Mail?"
"Yes."
"The gentleman who visited Lord Harrowby an hour back?"
"Man! Man! You're wasting time," O'Neill cried.
"Excuse me," smiled Minot. "Unintentional, I assure you." He seized the little Spaniard suddenly by the collar. "We're here for Lord Harrowby's letters," he said. His other hand began a rapid search of Manuel Gonzale's pockets.
"Let me go, you thief," screamed the proprietor of the Mail. He squirmed and fought. "Let me go!" He writhed about to face his editors. "You fools! What are you doing, standing there? Help me—help—"
"We're waiting," said O'Neill. "Waiting for our turn. Remember your promise, son. Enough of him left for me."
Minot and his captive slid back and forth across the floor. The three others watched, O'Neill in high glee.
"Go to it!" he cried. "That's Madame On Dit
