EARLY Tuesday morning, while Mr. Minot still slept and mercifully forgot, two very wide awake gentlemen sat alone together in the office of the San Marco Mail. One was Manuel Gonzale, proprietor of that paper, as immaculate as the morn; the other was that broad and breezy gentleman known in his present incarnation as Mr. Martin Wall.
"Very neat. Very neat indeed," said Mr. Wall, gazing with evident approval at an inky smelling sheet that lay before him. "It ought to do the work. If it does, it will be the first stroke of luck I've had in San Marco."
Gonzale smiled, revealing two even rows of very white teeth.
"You do not like San Marco?" he ventured.
Mr. Wall snorted angrily.
"Like it? Does a beheaded man like the ax? In a long and golden professional career, I've