The editor rose, closed the door and resumed his seat:
"Well, sir; how can I serve you?"
The visitor fumbled in his coat pocket and drew out a crumpled piece of paper which he fingered gingerly:
"I've been readin' your editorials agin' secret societies, major, and I like 'em—that's why I made up my mind to put my trust in you——"
"Why, I thought you were a member of the Loyal Black League, Mr. Peeler?"
"No, sir—it's a mistake, sir," was the smooth lying answer. "I hain't got nothin' to do with no secret society. I hate 'em all—just run your eye over that, major."
He extended the crumpled piece of paper on which was scrawled in boyish writing:
"We hear you want to marry a nigger. Our advice is to leave this country for the more congenial climate of Africa.
"By order of the Grand Cyclops, ku klux klan."
The young editor studied the scrawl in surprise: