"You are not exactly complimentary. However--let us say for the argument--you buy the _Mail_ at once. I am, by the way, empowered to make the sale. You take charge. You hurry to the office. You destroy all copies of to-day's issue so far printed. You give orders to the composing-room to kill this first-page story--good as it is. 'Please kill,' you say. A term with newspaper men." "You call yourself a newspaper man?" "Why not? The story is killed. Another is put in its place--say, for example, an elaborate account of your daughter's wedding. And in its changed form the _Mail_--your newspaper--goes on the street." "Um--and your price?" "It is a valuable property." "Especially valuable this morning, I take it," sneered Meyrick. "Valuable at any time. Our presses cost a thousand. Our linotypes two thousand. And there is that other thing--so hard to estimate definitely--the wide appeal of our paper. The price--well--fifteen thousand dollars. Extremely reasonable. And I will include--the good will of the retiring management." "You contemptible little--" began Spencer Meyrick. "My dear sir--control yourself," pleaded Gonzale. "Or I may be unable to include the good will I spoke of. Would you care to see that story on the streets? You may at any moment. There is but one way out. Buy the newspaper. Buy it now. Here is the plan--you go with me to your bank. You procure fifteen thousand in cash. We go together to the _Mail_ office. You pay me the money and I leave you in charge." Old Meyrick leaped to his feet. "Very good," he cried. "Come on." "One thing more," continued the crafty Gonzale. "It may pay you to note--we are watched. Even now. All the way to the bank and thence to the office of the _Mail_--we will be watched. Should any accident, now unforeseen, happen to me, that issue of the _Mail_ will go on sale in five minutes all over San Marco." Spencer Meyrick stood glaring down at the little man in white. His enthusiasm of a moment ago for the journey vanished. However, the head-lines of the _Mail_ were staring up at him from the bench. He stooped, pocketed the paper, and growled: "I understand. Come on!" There must be some escape. The trap seemed absurdly simple. Across the hotel lawn, down the hot avenue, in the less hot plaza, Meyrick sought a way. A naturally impulsive man, he had difficulty restraining himself. But he thought of his daughter, whose happiness was more than money in his eyes. No way offered. At the counter of the tiny bank Meyrick stood writing his check, Gonzale at his elbow. Suddenly behind them the screen door slammed, and a wild-eyed man with flaming red hair rushed in. "What is it you want?" Gonzale screamed. "Out of my way, Don Quixote," cried the red-topped one. "I'm a windmill and my arms breathe death. Are you Mr. Meyrick? Well, tear up that check!" "Gladly," said Meyrick. "Only--"