it here? This is no place for us. We'd better be moving on to the next town."
But the lean stranger gave no heed. Instead he stepped over and entered into earnest converse with a citizen of San Marco. In a moment he returned to his companion's side.
"One newspaper," he announced. "The Evening Chronicle. Suppose the office is locked for the night—but come along, let's try."
"Feed or otherwise annoy," muttered the little man blankly. "For the love of Allah—alms!"
They traversed several side streets, and came at last to the office of the Chronicle. It was a modest structure, verging on decay. One man sat alone in the dim interior, reading exchanges under an electric lamp.
"Good evening," said the short man genially. "Are you the editor?"
"Uh, huh," responded the Chronicle man without enthusiasm, from under his green eye-shade.
"Glad to know you. We just dropped in—a couple of newspaper men, you know. This is Mr. Harry Howe, until recently managing editor
