“I’m going there. Don’t you dare make a movement or a noise. If you do—I’ll come back.”
Shifting his grasp, he caught her up and with easy power tossed her upon a broad divan. From its springy surface she shot up, as it seemed to him, halfway to the ceiling, rigid and staring, a ludicrous simulacrum of a glassy-eyed doll. He heard the protesting “ping!” and “berr-rr-rr” of a broken spring as she fell back. The traverse of a narrow hallway and a turn through a half-open door took him into the presence of bearded benevolence making notes at a desk.
“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: