Again came the scream, and Westerham blundered up the second flight, the negro and Melun hard upon his heels. On the second landing there was no longer any doubt as to where the cries came from. Westerham dashed at the door, only to find it locked. In a second he had his shoulder against the crazy panel, and the door went in with a crash, disclosing a frowsy little sitting-room somewhat in disorder. All about was spread signs of a meal. Two girls—Westerham judged them to be young East End Jewesses—were huddled in a corner, while a man, whom Westerham at once recognised as a sailor, stood swaying drunkenly over them. He had his hand at the man's collar in a moment, and swung him heavily backwards. The negro, his face quivering with passion, blocked the doorway, knife in hand. It was Westerham's turn to use firearms now, and he covered the man with as certain and as deadly an aim as that which had extorted the confession of Captain Melun on the _Gigantic_. The girls ceased to scream, but clung together, crying and looking at Westerham in an appealing way with eyes blurred with tears. Melun thrust the negro aside and brushed into the room. “You fool!” he said to Westerham, shortly, “this is enough to bring the whole crowd about your ears.” Westerham laughed. He had known what in Western parlance is called a “rough house” before, and was prepared for all emergencies. As usual, too, when he found himself in an emergency, he was cool and smiling to the point of insolence. “You forget,” he said to Melun, “that there is a window in this room, and beyond the window is the street. You forget, too, that one good man is worth all that crowd you seem so much afraid of. I am going to take these girls away.” The drunken sailor, who had by this time half-recovered his senses, sat on the floor, blinking at Westerham and cursing steadily. Melun took one quick look at Westerham's unpleasantly bright and steady gaze, and again shrugged his shoulders. But this time the shrug indicated assent. “Very well,” he said. Westerham again turned to the negro. “Drop that knife,” he ordered. “Not me!” said the negro. “Drop it!” said Westerham again. And the man dropped it. He turned to the shivering girls. “Come along,” he said, “let's get out of this while there is time.” Rising unsteadily to their feet, and still clinging together, the girls moved towards the door. “Follow me down closely,” said Westerham, and then he thrust the nozzle of his six-shooter against the negro's breast. “Right about,” he said, “and down the stairs before me.” Melun he ignored altogether, and the captain brought up the rear. In this wise they went down the stairs. The hubbub, however, had attracted the attention of the men below, and two or three of them were now gathered together in the darkness of the passage, swearing angrily. Westerham, who had taken the lantern from the negro, swung it aloft. “Permit me to show you a light,” he cried.