"Then don't you think I'd better deal direct with the Major?"

She studied his face. "Yes," she began, and instantly refuted herself.
"No. I don't trust you. There's trouble under that smooth smile of
yours."

"But _you're_ not afraid of me, surely," said Banneker. He had found out
one important point; her manner when she said "Yes" indicated that the
proprietor was in the building. Now he continued: "Are you?"

"I don't know. I think I am." There was a little catch in her breath. "I
think you'd be dangerous to any woman."

Banneker, his eyes fixed on hers, played for time and a further lead
with a banality. "You're pleased to flatter me."

"Aren't you pleased to be flattered?" she returned provocatively.

He put his hand on her wrist. She swayed to him with a slow, facile
yielding. He caught her other wrist, and the grip of his two hands
seemed to bite into the bone.

"So you're _that_ kind, too, are you!" he sneered, holding her eyes as
cruelly as he had clutched her wrists. "Keep quiet! Now, you're to do as
I tell you."

(Ely Ives, in describing the watchwoman at the portals of scandal, had
told him that she was susceptible to a properly timed bluff. "A woman
she had slandered once stabbed her; since then you can get her nerve by
a quick attack. Treat her rough.")

She stared at him, fearfully, half-hypnotized.

"Is that the door leading to Bussey's office? Don't speak! Nod."

Dumb and stricken, she obeyed.

"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