e article did it appear that Banneker had any
connection with the newspaper world. He was made to appear as a young
Westerner on a visit to the yacht of a millionaire business man, having
come on from his ranch in the desert, and presumptively--to add the
touch of godhead--a millionaire himself.

"The stinking liars!" said Andreas.

"That settles it," declared Mr. Gordon. "We'll give the facts plainly
and without sensationalism; but all the facts."

"Including Mr. Banneker's connection here?" inquired Mr. Greenough.

"Certainly."

The other evening papers, more honest than The Evening New Yorker,
admitted, though, as it were, regretfully and in an inconspicuous finale
to their accounts that the central figure of the sensation was only a
reporter. But the fact of his being guest on a yacht was magnified and
glorified.

At five o'clock Banneker arrived, having been bailed out after some
difficulty, for the police were frightened and ugly, foreseeing that
this swift vengeance upon the notorious gang, meted out by a private
hand, would throw a vivid light upon their own inefficiency and
complaisance. Happily the District Attorney's office was engaged in one
of its periodical feuds with the Police Department over some matter of
graft gone astray, and was more inclined to make a cat's-paw than a
victim out of Banneker.

Though inwardly strung to a high pitch, for the police officials had
kept him sleepless through the night by their habitual inquisition,
Banneker held himself well in hand as he went to the City Desk to report
gravely that he had been unable to come earlier.

"So we understand, Mr. Banneker," said Mr. Greenough, his placid
features for once enlivened. "That was a good job you did. I
congratulate you."

"Thank you, Mr. Greenough," returned Banneker. "I had to do it or get
done. And, at that, it wasn't much of a trick. They were a yellow lot."

"Very likely: very likely. You've handled a gun before."

"Only in practice."

"Ever shot anybody before?"

"No, sir."

"How does it feel?" inquired the city editor, turning his pale eyes on
the other and fussing nervously with his fingers.

"At first you want to go on killing," answered Banneker. "Then, when
it's over, there's a big let-down. It doesn't seem as if it were you."
He paused and added boyishly: "The evening papers are making an awful
fuss over it."

"What do you expect? It isn't every day that a Wild West Show with real
bullets and bloo