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.
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