"Children, see the very Christian martyr! If it was me I'd chuck the job and elope with--oh, no, you couldn't do that, of course. It would be a low trick. You are in a hole, aren't you?" "Five million fathoms deep. There's nothing to do but see the wedding through. And you're going to help me. Just now, Mr. Manuel Gonzale has a packet of love-letters written by Harrowby in his salad days, which he proposes to print on the morrow unless he is paid not to to-night. You and I are on our way to take 'em away from him." "Um--but if I help you in this I'll be doing you a mean trick. Can't quite make out, old boy, whether to stand by you in a business or a personal way." "You're going to stand by me in a business way. I want you along to-night to lend your moral support while I throttle that little blackmailer.". "Ay, ay, sir. I've been hearing some things about Gonzale myself. Go to it!" They groped about in a dark hallway hunting the _Mail_ office. "Shady are the ways of journalism," commented Paddock. "By the way, I've just thought of one for Mrs. Bruce to spring to-morrow. In case we fail and the affinity letters are published, she might say that Harrowby's epistles got into the _Mail_ once too often. It's only a rough idea--ah--I see you don't like it. Well, here's success to our expedition." They opened the door of the _Mail_ office. Mr. O'Neill sat behind a desk, the encyclopedia before him, seeking lively material for the morrow's issue. Mr. Howe hammered at a typewriter. Both of the newspaper men looked up at the intrusion. "Ah, gentlemen," said O'Neill, coming forward. "What can I do for you?" "Who are you?" Minot asked. "What? Can it be? Is my name not a household word in San Marco? I am managing editor of the _Mail_." His eyes lighted on Mr. Paddock's giddy attire. "We can't possibly let you give a ball here to-night, if that's what you want." "Very humorous," said Minot. "But our wants are far different. I won't beat around the bush. You have some letters here written by a friend of mine to a lady he adored--at the moment. You are going to print them in to-morrow's _Mail_ unless my friend is easy enough to pay you ten thousand dollars. He isn't going to pay you anything. We've come for those letters--and we'll get them or run you and your boss out of town in twenty-four hours--you raw little blackmailers!" "Blackmailers!" Mr. O'Neill's eyes seemed to catch fire from his hair. His face paled. "I've been in the newspaper business seventeen years, and nobody ever called me a blackmailer and got away with it. I'm in a generous mood. I'll give you one chance to take that back--" "Nonsense. It happens to be true--" put in Paddock. "I'm talking to your friend here." O'Neill's breath came fast. "I'll attend to you, you lily of the field, in a minute. You--you liar--are you going to take that back?" "No," cried Minot.