that telephone. At a word from my friend, Mr. Martin Wall, to-day's edition of the Mail is to flood the streets—the news-stands. Instantly. Delay might be fatal. Is that clear?"
"I know," said Luypas.
"Very good," said Gonzale. He turned to Martin Wall. "Now is the time," he added.
The two descended to the street. Opposite the Hotel de la Pax they parted. The sleek little Spaniard went on alone and mounted boldy those pretentious steps. At the desk he informed the clerk on duty that he must see Mr. Spencer Meyrick at once.
"But Mr. Meyrick is very busy to-day," the clerk objected.
"Say this is—life and death," replied Gonzale, and the clerk, wilting, telephoned the millionaire's apartments.
For nearly an hour Gonzale was kept waiting. Nervously he paced the lobby, consuming one cigarette after another, glancing often at his watch. Finally Spencer Meyrick appeared, pompous, red-faced, a hard man to handle, as he
