“How did you get here?  And who the devil are you?” demanded the guiding genius of The Searchlight, looking up irritably.  He raised his voice.  “Con!” he called.

From a side room appeared a thick, heavy-shouldered man with a feral countenance, who slouched aggressively forward, as the intruder announced himself.

“My name is Banneker.”

“Cheest!” hissed the thick bouncer in tones of dismay, and stopped short.

Turning, Banneker recognized him as one of the policemen whom his evidence had retired from the force in the wharf-gang investigation.

“Oh!  Banneker,” muttered the editor.  His right hand moved slowly, stealthily, toward a lower drawer.

“Cut it, Major!” implored Con in acute anguish.  “Canche’ see he’s gotche’ covered through his pocket!”

The stealthy hand returned to the sight of all men and fussed among some papers on the desk-top.  Major Bussey said peevishly: 

“What do you want with me?”

“Kill that paragraph.”

“What par—­”

“Don’t fence with me,” struck in Banneker sharply.  “You know what one.”

Major Bussey swept his gaze around the room for help or inspiration.  The sight of the burly ex-policeman, stricken and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, disconcerted him sadly; but he plucked up courage to say: 

“The facts are well authent—­”

Again Banneker cut him short.  “Facts!  There isn’t the semblance of a fact in the whole thing.  Hints, slurs, innuendoes.”

“Libel does not exist when—­” feebly began the editor, and stopped because Banneker was laughing at him.

“Suppose you read that,” said the visitor, contemptuously tossing the typed script of his new-wrought editorial on the desk. “That’s libellous, if you choose.  But I don’t think you would sue.”

Major Bussey read the caption, a typical Banneker eye-catcher, “The Rattlesnake Dies Out; But the Pen-Viper is Still With Us.”  “I don’t care to indulge myself with your literary efforts at present, Mr. Banneker,” he said languidly.  “Is this the answer to our paragraph?”

“Only the beginning.  I propose to drive you out of town and suppress ‘The Searchlight.’”

“A fair challenge.  I’ll accept it.”

“I was prepared to have you take that attitude.”

“Really, Mr. Banneker; you could hardly expect to come here and blackmail me by threats—­”

“Now for my alternative,” proceeded the visitor calmly.  “You are proposing to publish a slur on the reputation of an innocent woman who—­”

“Innocent!” murmured the Major with malign relish.

“Look out, Major!” implored Con, the body-guard.  “He’s a killer, he is.”

“I don’t know that I’m particularly afraid of you, after all,” declared the exponent of The Searchlight, and Banneker felt a twinge of dismay lest he might have derived, somewhence, an access of courage.  “A Wild West shooting is one thing, and cold-blooded, premeditated murder is another.  You’d go to the chair.”