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 always had been. The Spaniard noted this, and his slits of eyes grew even narrower. "Will you come with me?" he asked suavely. "It is most important." He led the way to a summer-house in a far forgotten corner of the hotel grounds. Protesting, Spencer Meyrick followed. The two sat down. "I have something to show you," said Gonzale politely, and removed from his pocket a copy of the _San Marco Mail_, still damp from the presses. Spencer Meyrick took the paper in his own large capable hands. He glanced casually at the first page, and his face grew somewhat redder than its wont. A huge head-line was responsible: HARROWBY WASN'T TAKING ANY CHANCES. Underneath, in slightly smaller type, Spencer Meyrick read: Remarkable Foresight of English Fortune Hunter Who Weds Miss Meyrick To-Day Took Out a Policy For Seventy-Five Thousand Pounds With Lloyds. Same to be Payable in Case the Beautiful Heiress Suffered a Change of Heart Prominent on the page was a large photograph, which purported to be "An Exact Facsimile of the Policy." Mr. Meyrick examined it. He glanced through the story, which happened to be commendably brief. He told himself he must remain calm, avoid fireworks, think quickly. Laying the paper on his knee, he turned to the little white-garbed man beside him. "What trick is this?" he asked sharply. "It is no trick, sir," said Gonzale pleasantly. "It is the truth. That is a photograph of the policy." Old Meyrick studied the cut again. "I'll be damned," he remarked. "I have no desire to annoy," Gonzale went on. "But--there are five thousand copies of to-day's _Mail_ at the office ready to be distributed at a signal from me. Think, sir! Newsboys on the street with that story at the very moment when your daughter becomes Lady Harrowby." "I see," said Meyrick slowly. "Blackmail." Manuel Gonzale shuddered in horror. "Oh, I beg of you," he protested. "That is hardly it. A business proposition, I should call it. It happens that the men back of the Star Publishing Company, which issues the _Mail_, have grown tired of the newspaper game in San Marco. They are desirous of closing out the plant at once--say this morning. It occurs to them that you might be very glad to purchase the _Mail_--before the next edition goes on the street." "You're a clever little dog," said Meyrick, through his teeth.