"Did youse get a look at his mug, Mr. Durand?" asked one of the officers. "It's likely we've got it down at headquarters in the gall'ry." Durand had already made up his mind on that point. "We didn't see his face in the light, Pete. No, I wouldn't know him again." His plug-uglies took their cue from him. So did the officers. If Durand did not want a pinch there would, of course, not be one. The gang leader was in a vile temper. If this story reached the newspapers all New York would be laughing at him. He could appeal to the police, have Clay Lindsay arrested, and get him sent up for a term on the charge of burglary. But he could not do it without the whole tale coming out. One thing Jerry Durand could not stand was ridicule. His vanity was one of his outstanding qualities, and he did not want it widely known that the boob he had intended to trap had turned the tables on him, manhandled him, jeered at him, and locked him in a room with his three henchmen. Johnnie Green chose this malapropos moment for reminding the officers of the reason for the coming to the house. "What about the young lady?" he asked solicitously. Durand wheeled on him, looked him over with an insolent, malevolent eye, and jerked a thumb in his direction. "Who is this guy?" "He's the fellow tipped us off his pal was inside," answered one of the patrolmen. He spoke in a whisper close to the ear of Jerry. "Likely he knows more than he lets on. Shall I make a pinch?" The eyes of the gang leader narrowed. "So he's a friend of this second-story bird, is he?" "Y'betcha!" chirped up Johnnie, "and I'm plumb tickled to take his dust too. Now about this yere young lady--" Jerry caught him hard on the side of the jaw with a short arm jolt. The range-rider hit the pavement hard. Slowly he got to his feet nursing his cheek. "What yuh do that for, doggone it?" he demanded resentfully. "Me, I wasn't lookin' for no trouble. Me, I--" Durand leaped at him across the sidewalk. His strong fingers closed on the throat of the bow-legged puncher. He shook him as a lion does his kill. The rage of the pugilist found a vent in punishing the friend of the man he hated. Johnnie grew black in the face. His knees sagged and his lips foamed. The officers pried Jerry loose from his victim with the greatest difficulty. He tried furiously to get at him, lunging from the men who were holding his arms. The puncher sank helplessly against the wall. "He's got all he can carry, Mr. Durand," one of the bluecoats said soothingly. "You don't wantta croak the little guy." The ex-prize-fighter returned to sanity. "Says I'm white-slavin' a girl, does he? I'll learn him to lie about me," he growled. Johnnie strangled and sputtered, fighting for breath to relieve his tortured lungs. "Gimme the word, an' I'll run him in for a drunk," the policeman suggested out of the corner of a whispering mouth. Jerry shook his head. "Nope. Let him go, Pete."