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 glance of this assailant, and he swung completely around, kicking Pop below the chin. That worthy tumbled down the stairs with a howl of pain. "Now, I'm going to shoot to kill. Every court in the state will sustain a policeman who shoots a white-slaver. Don't forget that!" cried Burke sharply. "You girls let them go first." [Illustration: "I'm going to shoot to kill. Every court in the state will sustain a policeman who shoots a white-slaver."] Down the steps went the motley crew, backing slowly at Burke's order. The girls, sobbing hysterically with joy at their rescue, almost impeded the bluecoat's defense as they clung to his arms. It was a curious procession which met the eyes of Reggie Van Nostrand and half a dozen reserves who had just run up the steps. "Well, I say old chap, isn't this jolly?" cried Reggie. "This beats any show I ever saw! Why, it's a regular Broadway play!" "You bet it is, and you helped me well. The papers ought to give you a good spread to-morrow, Mr. Van Nostrand," answered Bobbie grimly, as he shook the young millionaire's hand with warmth. The gang were rapidly being handcuffed by the reserves.