contributor to the
"cause" back in the days of Boss Tweed. He temporarily forgot that
times had changed.

"That's all right, pal," he said, with a sickly smile, "just a little
token for the wife and kids."

He handed out a roll of bills which he pressed against Bobbie's hands.
The policeman looked at him with a curious squint.

"So, you think that will fix me, do you?"

"Well, if you're a little hard up, old fellow, you know I'm a good
fellow...."

Up the stairs there was a scuffle.

Bobbie heard another scream. So, before Pop could utter another sound
he pushed the old man aside and rushed up, three steps at a time. The
first door he saw was locked--behind it Bobbie knew a woman was being
mistreated.

He rushed the door and gave it a kick with his stout service boots.

A chair was standing in the hall. He snatched this up and began
smashing at the door, directing vigorous blows at the lock. The first
leg broke off. Then the second. The third was smashed, but the fourth
one did the trick. The door swung open, and as it did so a water
pitcher, thrown with precision and skill, grazed his forehead. Only a
quick dodge saved him from another skull wound.

Burke sprang into the room.

There were three men in it, while Madame Blanche, the proprietress of
the miserable establishment, stood in the middle transfixed with fear.
She still held in her hand the black snake whip with which she had been
"taming" one of the sobbing Swedish girls. The Swede held one of his
country-women in a rough grip.

The country girl, who had been hitherto locked in the closet, was down
on her knees, her bruised hands outstretched toward Burke.

"Oh, save me!" she cried.

The last of the victims, who was evidently unconscious from a drug, was
lying on the floor in a pathetic little heap.

Baxter was cowering behind the bed.

The barred windows, placed there to prevent the escape of the
unfortunate girl prisoners, were their Nemesis, for they were at the
mercy of the lone policeman.

"Drop that gun!" snapped Burke, as he saw the Swede reaching stealthily
toward a pocket.

His own, a blue-steeled weapon, was swinging from side to side as he
covered them.

"Hands up, every one, and march down these stairs before me!" he
ordered. Just then he heard a footstep behind him. Old Pop was
creeping up the steps with Madame Blanche's carving knife, snatched
hastily from the dining-room table.

Burke, cat-like, caught a side