"Maybe. I leave that to you. This kind of thing"--he motioned toward the damp paper--"is not in my line." He bent over a picture on the front page. "That cut came out pretty well, didn't it? Lucky we got the photograph before big brother George arrived." "I have always found San Marco lucky," replied Gonzale. "Always--with one trifling exception." He drummed reminiscently on his desk. "I say--who's this?" Mr. Wall pointed to a line just beneath the name of the paper. "Robert O'Neill, Editor and Proprietor," he read. Manuel Gonzale gurgled softly somewhere within, which was his cunning, non-committal way of indicating mirth. "Ah--my very virtuous managing editor," he said. "One of those dogs who dealt so vilely with me--I have told you of that. Manuel Gonzale does not forget." He leaned closer. "This morning at two, after O'Neill and Howe had sent to-day's paper to press as usual, Luypas, my circulation manager, and I arrived. My virtuous editors had departed to their rest. Luypas and I stopped the presses, we substituted a new first-page form. O'Neill and Howe--they will not know. Always they sleep until noon. In this balmy climate, it is easy to lie abed." Again Manuel Gonzale gurgled. "May their sleep be dreamless," he said. "And should our work of the morning fail, may the name of O'Neill be the first to concern the police." Wall laughed. "A good idea," he remarked. He looked at his watch. "Nine-fifteen. The banks ought to be open now." Gonzale got to his feet. Carefully he folded the page that had been lying on his desk. "The moment for action has come," he said. "Shall we go down to the street?" "I'm in strange waters," responded Martin Wall uneasily. "The first dip I've ever taken out of my line. Don't believe in it either--a man should have his specialty and stick to it. However, I need the money. Am I letter perfect in my part, I wonder?" The door of the _Mail_ office opened, and a sly little Cuban with an evil face stepped in. "Ah, Luypas," Gonzale said, "you are here at last? Do you understand? Your boys they are to be in the next room--yes? You are to sit near 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 boldly 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.