The pugilist dropped his hand on little Bob Dungan’s shoulder. His left hand. His right jerked into sight with a revolver; he thrust the muzzle of it into Bob’s face. “You smell that,” he cried, truculently. “I’ll blow your damn head off.” Bob--laughed. “Why, that’s all right,” he replied. If he had squirmed, struggled, or even if he had been afraid, the other’s drunken anger might have given him strength to shoot. There was very real and deadly peril in the situation. But Bob, unafraid, laughed; and the prize-fighter could see that there was no fear in the little man’s eyes. “That’s all right,” said Bob. “Go ahead.” Brenton did not shoot. He hesitated uncertainly, his slow wits wavering. And Bob asked sympathetically: “Did she treat you pretty bad?” “Bad?” Brenton echoed. “Why, the things she’s done to me--Why, say....” “That’s tough,” the reporter murmured. The fighter’s grip on his shoulder relaxed; the big man’s arm slid around Bob’s neck. He became maudlin and unhappy, weeping for sympathy. “Why, you jus’ lemme tell you....” he begged. “Sure,” Bob agreed. “Tell me all about it. Let’s go in and sit down.” They went into the living-room. “Y’see, it was this way....” the pugilist began. IV When Bob left the prize-fighter, he called the office and reported to Dade. “Dungan speaking,” he said. “What you got?” Dade asked hurriedly. “Jack Brenton. Got his story. About his wife. Good stuff....” Dade interrupted. “Never mind that now,” he directed. “There’s a big fire in that block of lofts on Chambers Street. Hop a taxi and get there quick as you can. Get busy, Bob.” Bob said crisply: “‘Right!” He heard the receiver click as Dade hung up. Five minutes later he had located a taxi and was racing toward the fire. As he drew near, he saw the column of smoke that rose from the burning building, black against the sky. “Two or three alarms,” he estimated, out of his long experience in such matters. “Lot of girls working in there, too. Probably caught some of them. Damned rat-hole....” He had not enough cash in his pocket to pay the taxi fare; so he showed the man his badge and said curtly: “Charge _Chronicle_.” Then he began to worm through the crowd toward the fire. His badge passed him through the fire-lines, into the smother of smoke and the tumult of voices and the throbbing rhythm of the engines. The loft building was five stories high; and when Bob looked up, he saw, as the smoke thinned and left vistas, the red of flames in every window on the upper floors. Beside an empty hose-wagon, he came upon Brett of the _Journal_, and asked him: “Anybody caught!” Brett shook his head. “Seven rescues,” he said. “Fire started on the top floor, so they mostly had time to run.” “Got the names?” Bob asked. “Jake’s got ’em,” said Brett. Jake was the _Chronicle’s_ police reporter. “He’s gone to telephone them in.”