"I am the Madame," said the owner of the _Mail_ with dignity. He removed the copy from O'Neill's hand, and glided with it into the other room. Scarcely had he disappeared when the door was opened furiously and a panting man stood inside. Mr. Henry Trimmer's keen eye surveyed the scene. "Where's Mears--Elliott?" he cried. "You're not the cashier, are you?" asked O'Neill with interest. "Don't try to be funny," roared Trimmer. "I'm looking for the editor of this paper." "Your search is ended," O'Neill replied. "What is it?" "You mean you-- Say! I've got a front-page story for to-morrow's issue that will upset the town." "Come to my arms," cried O'Neill. "What is it?" "The real Lord Harrowby has been kidnaped." O'Neill stared at him sorrowfully. "Have you been reading the Duchess again?" he asked. "Who the hell is Lord Harrowby?" "Do you mean to say you don't know? Where have you been buried alive?" Out of the inner room glided Manuel Gonzale, and recognizing him, Mr. Trimmer poured into his ear the story of George's disappearance. Mr. Gonzale rubbed his hands. "A good story," he said. "A very good story. Thank you, a thousand times. I myself will write it." With a scornful glance at the two strangers, Mr. Trimmer went out, and Manuel Gonzale sat down at his desk. O'Neill and Howe returned to their encyclopedic despatches. "There you are," said Gonzale at last, standing. "Put an eight column head on that, please, and run it on the front page. A very fine story. The paper must go to press"--he looked at a diamond studded watch--"in an hour. Only four pages. Please see to the make-up. My circulation manager will assist you with the distribution." At the door he paused. "It occurs to me that your exchequer may be low. Seventy-five dollars a week for the managing editor. Fifty for the city editor. Allow me--ten dollars each in advance. If you need more, pray remind me." Into their hands he put crinkling bills. And then, gliding still like the fox he looked, he went out into the night. "Sister," cried O'Neill weakly, "the fairies are abroad to-night. I hear the rustle of their feet over the grass." "Fairies," sneered Howe. "I could find another and a harsher name for them." "Don't," pleaded O'Neill. "Don't look a gift bill in the treasury number. Don't try to penetrate behind the beyond. Say nothing and let us eat. How are you coming with the mushroom serial?" An hour later they sent the paper to press, and sought the grill room of the Hotel Alameda. As they came happily away from that pleasant spot, O'Neill spied a fruit-stand. He stopped and made a few purchases. "Now," said Howe, "let us go over and meet the circulation manager. Here--where are you going, Bob?" "Just a minute," O'Neill shouted back. "Come along, Harry. I'm going over to the plaza! I'm going over to feed that alligator!" CHAPTER XI TEARS FROM THE GAIETY