"'Surely you can spare a little time from the Golf Clubs and University Clubs and Literary Clubs and Bridge Clubs and Tango Parties. Let me tell you that if you do not, during the next five or ten years, the people of these classes will imbibe still more to the detriment of our race, the anarchy and money lust which is being preached to them daily, nightly and almost hourly by the socialists, the anarchists and the atheists, who are all soured on life because they've never had it!

"'The tide of social unrest is sweeping across to us from the Old World which will engulf our civilization unless it is stopped by the jetties of social assistance and the breakwaters of increased moral education. You can't do this with Sunday-school papers and texts! You can't stem the movement in your clubs by denouncing the demagogues over highball glasses and teacups.

"'It is all right to have faith in the good. It is well to have hope for the future. Charity is essential to right living and right helping. But out of the five million people in New York City, four million and a half have never seen any evidence of Divine assistance such as our Good Book says is given to the sparrow. They are not lilies of the field. They must toil or die. You people are to them the lilies of the field! Your fine gowns, your happy lives, your endless opportunities for amusement; your extravagances are to them as the matador's flag to the bull in the Spanish ring. Unless you do take the interest, unless you do fight to stem the movement of these dwarfed and bitter leaders, unless you do overcome their arguments based on much solid-rock truth by definite personal work, by definite constructive education, your civilization, my civilization and the civilization of all the centuries will fall before socialism and anarchy.'

"But that was not what he said. I have never heard the minister of a rich congregation say that yet. Have you, Burke?"

"No, the minister who talked like that would have to look for a new pulpit, or get a job as a carpenter, like the Minister long ago, who made the rich men angry. But I had no idea that you thought about such things, Mr. Barton. You'd make a pretty good minister yourself."

The old inventor laughed as he patted the young man on the back.

"Burke, the trouble with most ministers, and poets, and painters, and novelists, and law-makers, and other successful professional men who are supposed to show us common, working people the right way to go is that they don't get out and mix it up. They don't have to work for a mean boss, they don't know what it is to go hungry and starved and afraid to call your soul your own—scared by the salary envelope at the end of the week. They don't get out and make their souls sweat blood. Otherwise, they'd reform the world so quickly that men like Trubus wouldn't be able to make a living out of the charity game."

Barton smiled jovially.

"But here we go sermonizing. People don't want to listen to sermons all the time."

"Well, we're on a serious subject, and it means our bread and butter and our happiness in life, when you get right down to it," said Bobbie. "I don't like sermons myself. I'd rather live in the Garden of Eden, where they didn't need any. Wouldn't you?"

"Yes, but my wheel chair would find it rough riding without any clearings," said Barton. "By the way, Bob, I've some news for you. My lawyer is coming up here to-night, to talk over some patent matters, and you can lay your family matters before him. He'll attend to that and you may get justice done you. If you have some money back in Illinois, you ought to have it."

"He can get all he wants—if he gives me some," agreed Burke, "and I'll back your patents."

The old man started off again on his plans, and they argued and explained to each other as happy as two boys with some new toys, until the sisters came home.

Lorna was distinctly cool toward Burke, but, under a stern look from Mary, gave the outward semblance of good grace. The fact that he had been present in her home at the time of her disastrous escapade, even though she believed him ignorant of it, made the girl sensitive and aloof.

She left Mary alone with him at the earliest pretext, and Bobbie had interesting things to say to her: things which were nobody's business but theirs.

Barton's lawyer came before Burke left to report for evening duty, and he spent considerable effort to learn the story of the uncle and the curious will.

Now a digression in narrative is ofttimes a dangerous parting of ways. But on this particular day Bobbie Burke had come to a parting of the ways unwittingly. He had left the plodding life of routine excitement of the ordinary policeman to embark upon a journey fraught with multifold dangers. In addition to his enemies of the underworld, he had made a new one in an entirely different sphere.

To follow the line of digression, had the reader gone into the same building on Fifth Avenue which Burke had entered that afternoon, perhaps an hour later, and had he stopped on the third floor, entered a door marked "Mercantile Agency," he would have discovered a very busy little market-place. The first room of the suite of offices thus indicated was quite small. A weazened man, with thin shiny fingers, an unnaturally pallid face, and stooped shoulders, sat at a small flat-top desk, inside an iron grating of the kind frequently seen in cashiers' offices.

He watched the hall door with beady eyes, and whenever it opened to admit a newcomer he subjected that person to keen scrutiny; then he pushed a small button which automatically clicked a spring in the lock of the grated door.

This done, it was possible for the approved visitor to push past into a larger room shut off from the first office by a heavy door which invariably slammed, because it was pulled shut by a strong wire spring and was intended to slam.

The larger room opened out on a rear court, and, upon passing one of the large dirty windows, a fire escape could be descried. Around this room were a number of benches. Close scrutiny would have disclosed the fact that they were old-fashioned church pews, dismantled from some disused sanctuary. Two large tables were ranged in the center of the room.

The floor was extremely dirty. The few chairs were very badly worn, and the only decorations on the walls were pasted clippings of prize fighters and burlesque queens, cut from the pages of The Police Gazette and the sporting pages of some newspapers.

Into this room, all through the afternoon, streamed a curious medley of people. Tall men, small men, rough men, dapper men, and loudly dressed women, who for the most part seemed inclined to corpulence. They talked sometimes; many seemed well acquainted. Others appeared to be strangers, and they glanced about them uneasily, apparently suspicious of their fellows.

This seemed a curious waiting room for a Fifth Avenue "Mercantile Agency."

But inside the room to the left, marked "private," was the explanation of the mystery; at last there was a partial explanation of the curious throng.

As the occupants chatted, or kept frigid and uneasy silence, in the outer room a fat man, smooth of face and monkish in appearance, occasionally appeared at the private portal and admitted one person at a time.

After disappearing through this door, his visitors were not seen again, for they left by another door, which automatically closed and locked itself as they went directly into the hall corridor where the elevators ran.

In the private office of the "Mercantile Agency" the fat man would sit at his desk and listen attentively to the words of his visitor.

"Speak up, Joe. You know I'm hard of hearing—don't whisper to me," was the tenor of a remark which he seemed to direct to every visitor. Yet strangely enough he frequently stopped to listen to voices in the outer room, which he appeared to recognize without difficulty.

On this particular afternoon a dapper-dressed youth was an early caller.

"Well, Tom, what luck on the steamer? Now, don't swallow your voice. Remember, I got kicked in the ear by a horse before I quit bookmaking, and I have to humor my hearing."

"Oh, it was easy. That Swede, Jensen, came over, you know, and he had picked out a couple of peachy Swede girls who were going to meet their cousin at the Battery. Minnie and I went on board ship as soon as she docked, to meet our relatives, and we had a good look at 'em while they were lined up with the other steerage passengers. They were fine, and we got Jensen to take 'em up to the Bronx. They're up at Molloy's house overnight. It's better to keep 'em there, and give 'em some food. You know, the emigrant society is apt to be on the lookout to-day. The cousin was there when the ferry came in from the Island, all right, but we spotted him before the boat got in, and I had Mickey Brown pick a fight with him, just in time to get him pinched. He was four blocks away when the boat landed, and Jensen, who had made friends with the girls coming over, told them he would take 'em to his aunt's house until they heard from their cousin."

"What do they look like? We've got to have particulars, you know."

"Well, one girl is tall, and the other rather short. They both have yellow hair and cheeks like apples. One's name is Lena and the other Marda—the rest of their names was too much for me. They're both about eighteen years old, and well dressed, for Swedes."

The fat man was busy writing down certain data on a pad arranged in a curious metal box, which looked something like those on which grocers' clerks make out the order lists for customers.

"Say, Henry, what do you use that thing for? Why don't you use a fountain pen and a book?" asked the dapper one.

"That's my affair," snapped the fat man. "I want this for records, and I know how to do it. Go on. What did Mrs. Molloy pay you?"

"Well, you know she's a tight one. I had to argue with her, and I have a lot of expense on this, anyway."

"Go on—don't begin to beef about it. I know all about the expenses. We paid the preliminaries. Now, out with the money from Molloy. It was to be two hundred dollars, and you know it. Two hundred apiece is the exact figure."

The visitor stammered, and finally pulled out a roll of yellow-backed bills "Well, I haven't gotten mine yet," he whined.

"Yours is just fifty on this, for you've had a steamer assignment every day this week. You can give your friend Minnie a ten-spot. Now, report here to-morrow at ten, for I've a new line for you. Good day. Shut the door."

The fat man was accustomed to being obeyed. The other departed with a surly manner, as though he had received the worst of a bargain. The manager jotted down the figures on the revolving strip of paper, for such it was, while the pencil he used was connected by two little metal arms to the side of the mechanism. Some little wheels inside the register clicked, as he turned the paper lever over for a clean record. He put the money into his wallet.

He went to the door to admit another.

"Ah, Levy, what do you have to say?"

"Ah, Meester Clemm, eet's a bad bizness! Nattings at all to-day. I've been through five shoit-vaist factories, and not a girl could I get. Too much of dis union bizness. I told dem I vas a valking delegate, but I don't t'ink I look like a delegate. Vot's to be done?"

The manager looked at him sternly.

"Well, unless you get a wiggle on, you'll be back with a pushcart, where you belong, over on East Broadway, Levy. The factories are full of girls, and they don't make four dollars a week. Lots of pretty ones, and you know where we can place them. One hundred dollars apiece, if a girl is right, and that means twenty-five for you. You've been drawing money from me for three weeks without bringing in a cent. Now you get on the job. Try Waverley Place and come in here to-morrow. You're a good talker in Yiddish, and you ought to be able to get some action. Hustle out now. I can't waste time."

The manager jotted down another memorandum, and again his machine clicked, as he turned the lever.

A portly woman, adorned in willow plumes, sealskin cloak and wearing large rhinestones in her rings and necklace, now entered at the manager's signal.

"Well, Madame Blanche, what have you to report?"

"I swear I ain't had no luck, Mr. Clemm. Some one's put the gipsy curse on me. Twice this afternoon in the park I've seen two pretty girls, and each time I got chased by a cop. I got warned. I think they're gettin' wise up there around Forty-second Street and Sixth Avenue."

"Well, how about that order we had from New Orleans? That hasn't been paid yet. You know it was placed through you. You got your commish out of it, and this establishment always wants cash. No money orders, either. Spot cash. We don't monkey with the United States mail. There's too many city bulls looking around for us now to get Uncle Sam's men on the job."

The portly person under the willow plume, with a tearful face, began to wipe her eyes with a lace kerchief from which, emanated the odor of Jockey Club.

"Oh, Mr. Clemm, you are certainly the hardest man we ever had to do business with. I just can't pay now for that, with my high rents, and gettin' shook down in the precinct and all."

"Can it, Madame Blanche. I'm a business man. They're not doing any shaking down just now in your precinct. I know all about the police situation up there, for they've got a straight inspector. Now, I want that four hundred right now. We sent you just what was ordered and if I don't get the money right now you get blacklisted. Shell out!"

The manager's tone was hard as nails.

"Oh, Mr. Clemm ... well, excuse me. I must step behind your desk to get it, but you ain't treatin' me right, just the same, to force it this way."

Madame Blanche, with becoming modesty, stepped out of view in order to draw forth from their silken resting place four new one hundred dollar bills. She laid them gingerly and regretfully on the desk, where they were quickly snatched up by the business-like Clemm.

"Maybe I'll have a little order for next week, if you can give better terms, Mr. Clemm," began the lady, but the manager waved her aside.

"Nix, Madame. Get out. I'm busy. You know the terms, and I advise you not to try any more of this hold-out game. You're a week late now, and the next time you try it you'll be sorry. Hurry. I've got a lot of people to see."

She left, wiping her eyes.

The next man to enter was somewhat mutilated. His eye was blackened and the skin across his cheek was torn and just healing from a fresh cut.

"Well, well, well! What have you been up to, Barlow? A prize fight?" snapped Clemm.

"Aw, guv'nor, quit yer kiddin'. Did ye ever hear of me bein' in a fight? Nix. I tried to work dis needle gag over in Brooklyn an' I got run outen de t'eayter on me neck. Dere ain't no luck. I'd better go back to der dip ag'in."

"You stick to orders and stay around those cheap department stores, as you've been told to do, and you'll have no black eyes. Last month you brought in eleven hundred dollars for me, and you got three hundred of it yourself. What's the matter with you? You look like a panhandler? Don't you save your money? You've got to keep decently dressed."

"Aw, guv'nor, I guess it's easy come, easy go. Ain't dere nottin' special ye kin send me on?"

"Report here to-morrow at eleven. We're planning something pretty good. Here's ten dollars. Go rig yourself up a little better and get that eye painted out. Hustle up. I'm busy."

The dilapidated one took the bill and rolled his good eye in gratitude.

"Sure, guv'nor, you're white wid me. I kin always git treated right here."

"Don't thank me, it's business. Get out and look like a man when I see you next. I don't want any bums working for me."

The fat man jotted down a memorandum of his outlay on the little machine. Then he admitted the next caller.

"Ah, it's you, Jimmie. Well, what have you to say? You've been working pretty well, so Shepard tells me. What about his row the other night? I thought that girl was sure."

"Well, Mr. Clemm, ye see, we had it fixed all right, an' some foxy gink blows in wid a taxi an' lifts de dame right from outen Shepard's mit! De slickest getaway I ever seen. I don't know wot 'is game is, but he sure made some getaway, an' we never even got a smell at 'im."

"Who was with you on the deal? Who did the come-on?"

"Oh, pretty Baxter. You knows, w'en dat boy hands 'em de goo-goo an' wiggles a few Tangoes he's dere wid both feet! But dis girl was back on de job ag'in in her candy store next day. But Baxter'll git 'er yit. Shepard's pullin' dis t'eayter manager bull, so he'll git de game yet."

"Did her folks get wise?"

"Naw, not as we kin tell. Shepard he seen her once after she left de store. De trouble is 'er sister woiks in de same place. We got ter git dat girl fired, and den it'll be easy goin'. De goil gits home widout de sister findin' out about it, she tells Shepard. I don't quite pipe de dope on dis butt-in guy. But he sure spoiled Shepard's beauty fer a week. Dere's only one t'ing I kin suspect."

"All right, shoot it. You know I'm busy. This girl's worth the fight, for I know who wants one just about her looks and age. What is it? We'll work it if money will do it, for there's a lot of money in this or I wouldn't have all you fellows on the job. I saw a picture she gave Baxter. She's a pretty little chicken, isn't she?"

"Shoor! Some squab. Well, Mr. Clemm, dere's a rookie cop down in de precinct w'ere I got a couple workin', named Burke. Bobbie Burke, damn 'im! He gave me de worst beatin' up I ever got from any cop, an' I'm on bail now for General Sessions fer assaultin' 'im."

"What's he got to do with it?"

"Well, dis guy was laid up in de hospital by one of me pals who put 'im out on first wid a brick. He got stuck on a gal whose old man was in dat hospital, and dat gal is de sister of dis yere Lorna Barton. Does ye git me?"

Clemm's eyes sparkled.

"What does he look like? Brown hair, tall, very square shoulders?" he asked.

"Exact! He's a fresh guy wid his talk, too—one of dem ejjicated cops. Dey tells me he was a collige boy, or in de army or somethin'."

"Could he have known about Lorna Barton going out with Baxter that night Shepard was beaten?"

"My Gaud! Yes, cause Baxter he tells me Burke was dere at de house." Clemm nodded his head.

"Then you can take a hundred to one shot tip from me, Jimmie, that this Burke had something to do with Shepard. He may have put one of his friends on the job. Those cops are not such dummies as we think they are sometimes. That fellow's a dangerous man."

Clemm pondered for a moment. Jimmie was surprised, for the manager of the "Mercantile Agency" was noted for his rapid-fire methods. The Monk knew that something of great importance must be afoot to cause this delay.

The manager tapped the desk with his fingers, as he moved his lips, in a silent little conversation with himself. At last he banged the desk with vehemence.

"Here, Jimmie. I'm going to entrust you with an important job."

The Monk brightened and smiled hopefully.

"How much money would it take to put Officer Bobbie Burke, if that's his name, where the cats can't keep him awake at night?"

Jimmie looked shiftily at the manager.

"You mean..."

He drew his hand significantly across his throat, raising his heavy eyebrows in a peculiar monkey grimace which had won for him his soubriquet.

"Yes, to quiet his nerves. It's a shame to let these ambitious young policemen worry too much about their work."

"I kin git it done fer twenty-five dollars."

"Well, here's a hundred, for I'd like to have it attended to neatly, quietly and permanently. You understand me?"

"Say, I'm ashamed ter take money fer dis!" laughed Jimmie the Monk.

"Don't worry about that, my boy. Make a good job of it. It's just business. I'm buying the service and you're selling it. Now get out, for I've got a lot more marketing to do."

Jimmie got.

It was indeed a busy little market place, with many commodities for barter and trade.



CHAPTER X

WHEN THE TRAIN COMES IN

Burke was sent up to Grand Central Station the following morning by Captain Sawyer to assist one of the plain-clothes men in the apprehension of two well-known gangsters who had been reported by telegraph as being on their way to New York.

"We want them down in this precinct, Burke, and you have seen these fellows, so I want to have you keep a sharp lookout in the crowd when the train comes in. In case of a scuffle in a crowd, it's not bad to have a bluecoat ready, because the crowd is likely to take sides. Anyway, there's apt to be some of this gas-house gang up there to welcome them home. And your club will do more good than a revolver in a railroad station. You help out if Callahan gives you the sign, otherwise just monkey around. It won't take but a few minutes, anyway."

Burke went up to the station with the detective.

They watched patiently when the Chicago train came in, but there was no sign of the desired visitors. The detective entered the gate, when all the passengers had left, and searched the train.

"They must have gotten off at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, from what the conductor could tell me. If they did, then they'll be nabbed up there, for Sawyer is a wise one, and had that planned," said Callahan. "I'll just loiter around the station a while to see any familiar faces. You can go back to your regular post, Burke."

Bobbie bade him good-bye, and started out one of the big entrances. As he did so he noticed a timid country girl, dressed ridiculously behind the fashions, and wearing an old-fashioned bonnet. She carried a rattan suitcase and two bandboxes.

"I wonder if she's lost," thought Burke. "I'll ask her. She looks scared enough."

He approached the young woman, but before he reached her a well-dressed young man accosted her. They exchanged a few words, and the fellow evidently gave her a direction, looking at a paper which she clutched in her nervous hand. The man walked quickly out of the building toward the street. Unseen by Burke, he whispered something to another nattily attired loiterer, an elderly man, who started toward the "car stop."

As Burke rounded the big pillar of the station entrance the man again addressed the country girl.

"There's your car, sis," he said, with a smile. Bobbie looked at him sharply.

There was something evil lurking in that smooth face, and the fellow stared impudently, with the haunting flicker of a scornful smile in his eyes, as he met the gaze of the policeman.

The country girl hurried toward the north-bound Madison Avenue car, which she boarded, with several other passengers. Among them was the gray-haired man who had received the mysterious message.

Burke watched the car disappear, and then turned to look at the smiling young man, who lit a cigarette, flicking the match insolently near the policeman's face.

"Move on, you," said Burke, and the young man shrugged his shoulders, leisurely returning to the waiting room of the station.

Burke was puzzled.

"I wonder what that game was? Maybe I stopped him in time. He looks like a cadet, I'll be bound. Well, I haven't time to stand around here and get a reprimand for starting on a wild-goose chase."

So Burke returned to the station house and started out on his rounds.

Had he taken the same car as the country girl, however, he would have understood the curious manoeuvre of the young man with the smile.

When the girl had ridden almost to the end of the line she left the car at a certain street. The elderly gentleman with the neat clothes and the fatherly gray hair did so at the same time. She walked uncertainly down one street, while he followed, without appearing to do so, on the opposite side. He saw her looking at the slip of paper, while she struggled with her bandboxes. He casually crossed over to the same side of the thoroughfare.

"Can I direct you, young lady?" he politely asked.

He was such a kind-looking old gentleman that the girl's confidence was easily won.

"Yes, sir. I'm looking for the Young Women's Christian Association. I thought it was down town, but a gentleman in the depot said it was on that street where I got off. I don't see it at all. They're all private houses, around here. You know, I've never been in New York City before, and I'm kinder green."

"Well, well, I wouldn't have known it," said her benefactor. "The Y.W.C.A. is down this street, just in the next block. You'll see the sign on the door, in big white letters. I've often passed it on my way to church."

"Oh, thank you, sir," and the country girl started on her quest once more, with a firmer grip on the suitcase and the bandboxes.

Sure enough, on the next block was a brownstone building—more or less dilapidated in appearance, it is true—just as he had prophesied.

There were the big white letters painted on a sign by the door. The girl went up the steps, rang the bell, and was admitted by a tousled, smirking negress.

"Is this here the Y.W.C.A.?" she asked nervously.

"Yassim!" replied the darkie. "Come right in, ma'am, and rest yoh bundles."

The girl stepped inside the door, which closed with a click that almost startled her. She backed to the door and put her hand on the knob. It did not turn!

"Are you sure this is the Y.W.C.A.?" she insisted. "I thought it was a great big building."

"Oh, yas, lady; dis is it. Yoh all don't know how nice dis buildin' is ontel you go through it. Gimme yoh things."

The negress snatched the suitcase from the girl's hand and whisked one of the bandboxes from the other.

"Here, you let go of that grip. I got all my clothes in there, and I don't think I'm in the right place."

As she spoke a plump lady, wearing rhinestone rings and a necklace of the same precious tokens, whom the reader might have recognized as no other than the tearful Madame Blanche, stepped from the parlor.

"Oh, my dear little girl. I'm so glad you came. We were expecting you. I am the president of the Y.W.C.A., you know. Just go right upstairs with Sallie, she'll show you to your room."

"Expecting me? How could you be? I didn't send word I was coming. I just got the address from our minister, and I lost part of it."

"That's all right, dearie. Just follow Sallie; you see she is taking your clothes up to your room. I'll be right up there, and see that you are all comfortable."

The bewildered girl followed the only instinct which asserted itself—that was to follow all her earthly belongings and get possession of them again. She walked into the trap and sprang up the stairs, two steps at a time, to overtake the negress.

Madame Blanche watched her lithe grace and strength as she sped upwards with the approving eye of a connoisseur.

"Fine! She's a beauty—healthy as they make 'em, and her cheeks are redder than mine, and mine cost money—by the box. Oh, here comes Pop."

She turned as the door was opened from the outside. It was a door which required the key from the inside, on certain occasions, and it was still arranged for the easy ingress of a visitor.

"Well, Blanche, what do you think?" inquired the benevolent old gentleman who had been such an opportune guide to the girl from up-State.

"Pop, she's a dandy. Percy can certainly pick 'em on the fly, can't he?"

"Well, don't I deserve a little credit?" asked the old gentleman, his vanity touched.

"Yes, you're our best little Seeing-Noo-Yorker. But say, Pop, Percy just telephoned me in time. We had to paint out that old sign, "help wanted," and put on 'Y.W.C.A.' Sallie is a great sign painter. We'll have trouble with this girl. She's a husky. But won't Clemm roll his eyes when he sees her?"

"Naw, he don't regard any of 'em more than a butcher does a new piece of beef. He's a regular business man, that's all. No pride in his art, nor nothing like that," sighed Pop. "But that girl made a hit with me, old as I am. She's a peach."

"Well, she won't look so rosy when Shepard shows her that she's got to mind. He's a rough one, he is. It gets on my nerves sometimes. They yell so, and he's got this whip stuff down too strong. You know I think he's act'ally crazy about beatin' them girls, and makin' them agree to go wherever we send 'em. He takes too much fun out of it, and when he welts 'em up it lowers the value. He'll be up this afternoon. We must have him ease it up a bit."

"Oh, well, he's young, ye know," said Pop. "Boys will be boys, and some of 'em's rough once in a while. I was a boy myself once." And he pulled his white mustache vigorously as he smiled at himself in the large hall mirror.

"You'd better be off down to the station again, Pop," said Madame Blanche. "They're going to send over two Swedish girls from Molloy's in the Bronx this afternoon, and then put 'em on through to St. Paul. I've got a friend out there who wants 'em to visit her. Then Baxter telephoned me that he had a little surprise for me, later to-day. He's been quiet lately, and it's about time, or he'll have to get a job in the chorus again to pay his manicure bills."

Pop took his departure, and, as Sallie came down the stairs with a smile of duty done, Madame Blanche could hear muffled screams from above.

"Where is she, Sallie?"

"She's in de receibin' room, Madame. Jes' let 'er yowl. It'll do her good. I done' tol' er to save her breaf, but she is extravagant. Wait ontil Marse Shepard swings dat whip. She'll have sompen to sing about!"

And Sallie went about her duties—to put out the empty beer bottles for the brewery man and to give the prize Pomeranian poodle his morning bath.

Madame Blanche retired to her cosy parlor, where, beneath the staring eyes of her late husband's crayon portrait, and amused by the squawking of her parrot, she could forget the cares of her profession in the latest popular problem novel.

On the floor above a miserable, weeping country lassie was beating her hands against the thick door of the windowless dark room until they were bruised and bleeding.

She sank to her knees, praying for help, as she had been taught to do in her simple life back in the country town.

But her prayers seemed to avail her naught, and she finally sank, swooning, with her head against the cruel barrier. Back in the railroad station, Percy and his kind-faced assistant, Pop, were prospecting for another recruit.



CHAPTER XI

THE POISONED NEEDLE

That afternoon Burke improved his time, during a two-hour respite, to hunt for a birthday present for Mary.

Manlike, he was shy of shops, so he sought one of the big department stores on Sixth Avenue, where he instinctively felt that everything under the sun could be bought.

As Bobbie paused before one of the big display windows on the sidewalk he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure. It was that instinct which one only half realizes in a brief instant, yet which leaves a strong reaction of memory.

"Who was that?" he thought, and then remembered: Baxter.

Burke followed the figure which had passed him so quickly, and found the same dapper young man deeply engrossed in the window display of women's walking suits.

"What can he find so interesting in that window?" mused Burke. "I'll just watch his tactics. I don't believe that fellow is ever any place for any good!"

He stood far out on the sidewalk, close to the curb. The passing throng swept in two eddying, opposite currents between him and Baxter, whose attention seemed strictly upon the window.

"Well, there's his refined companion," was Burke's next impression, as he espied the effeminate figure of Craig, strolling along the sidewalk close to the same window.

"Can they be pickpockets? I would guess that was too risky for them to take a chance on."

Neither youth spoke to the other, although they walked very close to each other. As Burke scrutinized their actions he saw a young girl, tastefully dressed in a black velvet suit, with a black hat, turn about excitedly. She looked about her, as though in alarm, and her face was distorted with pain. Baxter gave her a shifty look and followed her. Craig had been close at her side.

Burke drew nearer to the girl. She seemed to falter, as she walked, and it was apparently with great effort that she neared the door of the big department store. Baxter was watching her stealthily now.

"Oh!" she exclaimed desperately and keeled backward. Baxter's calculations were close, for he caught her in his arms.

"Quick! Quick!" he cried to the big uniformed carriage attendant at the door. "Get me a taxicab. My sister has fainted."

The man whistled for a machine, as Burke watched them. The officer was calculating his own chances on what baseball players call a "double play." Craig was close behind Baxter, in the curious crowd. Burke guessed that it would take at least a minute or two for Baxter to get the girl into a machine. So he rushed for Craig and surprised that young gentleman with a vicious grasp of the throat.

"Help! Police!" cried Craig, as some women screamed. His wish was doubly answered, for Burke's police whistle was in his mouth and he blew it shrilly. A traffic squad man rushed across from the middle of the street.

"Hurry, I want to get my sister away!" ordered Baxter excitedly to the door man. "You big boob, what's the matter with you?"

The crowd of people about him shut off the view of Burke's activities fifteen feet away. Baxter was nervous and was doing his best to make a quick exit with his victim.

"What's this?" gruffly exclaimed the big traffic policeman, as he caught Craig's arm.

"The needle!" grunted Burke. "Here, I've got it from his pocket."

He drew forth a small hypodermic needle syringe from Craig's coat pocket, and held it up.

"It's a frame-up!" squealed Craig.

"Take him quick. I want to save the girl!" exclaimed Burke, as he rushed toward Baxter.

That young man was just pushing the girl into the taxicab when a middle-aged woman rushed out from the store entrance.

"That's my daughter Helen! Helen, my child!"

At this there was terrific confusion in the crowd, and Burke saw Baxter give the girl a rough shove away from the taxicab door. He slipped a bill into the chauffeur's willing hand and muttered an order. The car sprang forward on the instant.

"I'll get that fellow this time!" muttered Burke. "He hasn't seen me, and I'll trail him."

He turned about and espied a big gray racing car drawn up at the curb. A young man weighted down under a heavy load of goggles, fur and other racing appurtenances sat in the car. Its engines were humming merrily.

"Say, you, follow that car for me," sung out Officer 4434, delighted at his discovery. "The taxicab with the black body."

The driver of the racer snorted contemptuously.

"Do you know who I am?"

Burke wasted no time, but jumped into the seat, for it was as opportune as though placed there by Providence. Perhaps Providence has more to do with some coincidences than the worldly wise are prone to confess.

"I'm Officer 4434 of the Police Department, and you mind my orders."

"Well, I'm Reggie Van Nostrand," answered the young man, "and I take orders from no man."

Burke knew this young millionaire by reputation. But he was nowise daunted. He kept his eye on the distant taxicab, which had luckily been halted at the second cross street by the delayed traffic.

"I'm going to put this pretty car of yours in the scrap heap, and I'm going to land you in jail, with all your money," calmly replied Burke, drawing his revolver. "The man in that taxi is a white slaver who just tried the poison needle on a girl, and you and I are going to capture him."

The undeniable sporting blood surged in the veins of Reggie Van Nostrand, be it said to his credit. It was not the threat.

"I'm with you, Officer!" He pressed a little lever with his foot and the big racing machine sprang forward like a thing possessed by a demon of speed.

The traffic officer on the other street tried to stop the car, until he saw the uniform of the policeman in the seat.

Bob waved his hand, and the fixed post man held back several machines, in order to give him the right of way.

They were now within a block of the other car.

"Say, haven't you another robe or coat that I can put on to cover my uniform, for that fellow will suspect a chase, anyway?"

"Yes, there at your feet," replied Van Nostrand shortly. "It's my father's. He'll be wondering who stole me and the car. Let him wonder."

Burke pulled up the big fur coat and drew it around his shoulders as the car rumbled forward. He found a pair of goggles in a pocket of the coat.

"I don't need a hat with these to mask me," he exclaimed. "Now, watch out on your side of the car, and I'll do it on mine, for he's a sly one, and will turn down a side street."

They did well to keep a lookout, for suddenly the pursued taxi turned sharply to the right.

After it they went—not too close, but near enough to keep track of its manoeuvres.

"He's going up town now!" said Reggie Van Nostrand, when the car had diverged from the congested district to an open avenue which ran north and south. The machine turned and sped along merrily toward Harlem.

"We're willing," said Burke. "I want to track him to his headquarters."

Block after block they followed the taxicab. Sometimes they nosed along, at Burke's suggestion, so far behind that it seemed as though a quick turn to a side street would lose their quarry. But it was evident that Baxter had a definite destination which he wished to reach in a hurry.

At last they saw the car stop, and then the youth ahead dismounted.

He was paying the chauffeur as they whizzed past, apparently giving him no heed.

But before they had gone another block Burke deemed it safe to stop.

He signaled Van Nostrand, who shut off the power of the miraculous car almost as easily as he had started it. Burke nearly shot over the windshield with the momentum.

"Some car!" he grunted. "You make it behave better than a horse, and I think it has more brains."

Nothing in the world could have pleased the millionaire more than this. He was an eager hunter himself by now.

"Say, supposing I take off my auto coat and run down that street and see where he goes to?"

"Good idea. I'll wait for you in the machine, if you're not afraid of the police department."

"You bet I'm not. Here, I'll put on this felt hat under the seat. They won't suspect me of being a detective, will they?"

"Hardly," laughed Burke, as the young society man emerged from his chrysalis of furs and goggles, immaculately dressed in a frock coat. He drew out an English soft hat and even a cane. "You are ready for war or peace, aren't you?"

Van Nostrand hurried down the street and turned the corner, changing his pace to one of an easy and debonair grace befitting the possessor of several racing stables of horses and machines.

He saw his man a few hundred yards down the street. Van Nostrand watched him sharply, and saw him hesitate, look about, and then turn to the left. He ascended the steps of a dwelling.

By the time Van Nostrand had reached the house, to pass it with the barest sidelong glance, the pursued had entered and closed the door. The millionaire saw, to his surprise, a white sign over the door, "Swedish Employment Bureau." The words were duplicated in Swedish.

"That's a bally queer sign!" muttered Reggie. "And a still queerer place for a crook to go. I'll double around the block."

As he turned the corner he saw an old-fashioned cab stop in front of the house. Two men assisted a woman to alight, unsteadily, and helped her up the steps.

"Well, she must be starving to death, and in need of employment," commented the rich young man. "I think the policeman has brought me to a queer hole. I'll go tell him about it."

The fashionable set who dwell on the east side of Central Park would have spilled their tea and cocktails about this time had they seen the elegant Reggie Van Nostrand breaking all speed records as he dashed down the next street, with his cane in one hand and his hat in the other. He reached the car, breathless, but his tango athletics had stood him in good stead.

"What's up?" asked Burke, jumping from the seat.

"Why, that's a Swedish employment agency, and I saw two men lead a woman up the steps from a cab just now. What shall we do?"

"You run your machine to the nearest drug store and find out where the nearest police station is. Then get a few cops in your machine, and come to that house, for you'll find me there," ordered Burke. "How far down the block?"

"Nearly to the next corner," answered Reggie, who leaped into his racing seat and started away like the wind.

Burke hurried down, following the path of the other, until he came to the house. He looked at the sign, and then glanced about him. He saw an automobile approaching, and intuitively stepped around the steps of the house next door, into the basement entry.

He had hardly concealed himself when the machine stopped in front of the other dwelling.

A big Swede, still carrying his emigrant bundle, descended from the machine, and called out cheerily in his native language to the occupants within the vehicle. Burke, peeping cautiously, saw two buxom Swedish lassies, still in their national costumes, step down to the street. The machine turned and passed on down the street.

Burke saw the man point out the sign of the employment agency, and the girls chattered gaily, cheered up with hopes of work, as he led them up the steps.

The door closed behind them.

Burke quietly walked around the front of the house and up the steps after them. He had made no noise as he ascended, and as he stood by the wall of the vestibule he fancied he detected a bitter cry, muffled to an extent by the heavy walls.

He examined the sign, and saw that it was suspended by a small wire loop from a nail in the door jamb.

Bobbie reached upward, took the sign off its hook, and turned it about.

"Well, just as I thought!" he exclaimed.

On the reverse side were the tell-tale letters, "Y.W.C.A."

"They are ready for all kinds of customers. I wonder how they'll like me!" was the humorous thought which flitted through his mind as he quietly turned the knob. It opened readily.

Bobbie stood inside the hallway, face to face with the redoubtable Pop!

Pop's eyes protruded as they beheld this horrid vision of a bluecoat. A cynical smile played about Burke's pursed lips as he held the sign up toward the old reprobate.

"Can I get a job here? Is there any work for me to do in this employment agency?" he drawled quietly.

Pop acted upon the instinct which was the result of many years' dealings with minions of the law. He had been a 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 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."



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.

Bobbie turned toward Baxter. It was a great moment of triumph for him. "Well, Baxter, so I got you at last! You're the pretty boy who takes young girls out to turkey trots! Now, you can join a dancing class up the Hudson, and learn the new lock-step glide!"



CHAPTER XII

THE REVENGE OF JIMMIE THE MONK

At the uptown station house Burke and his fellow officers had more than a few difficulties to surmount. The two Swedish girls were hysterical with fright, and stolid as the people of northern Europe generally are, under the stress of their experience the young women were almost uncontrollable. It was not until some gentle matrons from the Swedish Emigrant Society had come to comfort them in the familiar tongue that they became normal enough to tell their names and the address of the unfortunate cousin. This man was eventually located and he led his kinswomen off happy and hopeful once more.

Sallie, the negress, was remanded for trial, in company with her sobbing mistress, who realized that she was facing the certainty of a term of years in the Federal prison.

Uncle Sam and his legal assistants are not kind to "captains of industry" in this particular branch of interstate commerce.

"We have the goods on them," said the Federal detective who had been summoned at once to go over the evidence to be found in the carefully guarded house of Madame Blanche. "This place, to judge from the records has been run along two lines. For one thing, it is what we term a 'house of call.' Madame Blanche has a regular card index of at least two hundred girls."

"Then, that gives a pretty good list for you to get after, doesn't it?" said Burke, who was joining in the conference between the detective, the captain of the precinct, and the inspector of the police district.

"Well, the list won't do much good. About all you can actually prove is that these girls are bad ones. There's a description of each girl, her age, her height, her complexion and the color of her hair. It's horribly business like," replied the detective. "But I'm used to this. We don't often get such a complete one for our records. This list alone is no proof against the girls—even if it does give the list price of their shame, like the tag on a department store article. This woman has been keeping what you might call an employment agency by telephone. When a certain type of girl is wanted, with a certain price—and that's the mark of her swellness, as you might call it—Madame Blanche is called up. The girl is sent to the address given, and she, too, is given her orders over the telephone; so you see nothing goes on in this house which would make it strictly within the law as a house of ill repute."

"But, do you think there is much of this particular kind of trade?" queried Bobbie. "I've heard a lot of this sort of thing. But I put down a great deal of it to the talk of men who haven't anything else much to discuss."

"There certainly is a lot of it. When the police cleaned up the old districts along Twenty-ninth Street and Thirtieth and threw the regular houses out of the business, the call system grew up. These girls, many of them, live in quiet boarding houses and hotels where they keep up a strict appearance of decency—and yet they are living the worst kind of immoral lives, because they follow this trade scientifically."

Reggie Van Nostrand, by reason of his gallant assistance, and at his urgent request, had been allowed to listen.

"By George, gentlemen, I have a lot of money that I don't know what to do with. I wish there was some way I could help in getting this sort of thing stopped. Here's my life—I've been a silly spender of a lot of money my great grandfather made because he bought a farm and never sold it—right in the heart of what is now the busy section of town. I can't think of anything very bad that I've done, and still less any good that will amount to anything after I die. I'm going to spend some of what I don't need toward helping the work of cleaning out this evil."

The inspector grunted.

"Well, young man, if you spend it toward letting people know just how bad conditions are, and not covering the truth up or not trying to reform humanity by concealing the ugly things, you may do a lot. But don't be a reformer."

"What can be done with this woman Blanche?" asked Van Nostrand meekly.

"She'll be put where she won't have to worry about telephone calls and card indexes. Every one of these girls should be locked up, and given a good strong hint to get a job. It won't do much good. But, we've got this much of their records, and will be able to drive some of them out of the trade. When every big city keeps on driving them out, and the smaller cities do the same, they'll find that it's easier to give up silk dresses forever and get other work than to starve to death. But you can't get every city in the country doing this until the men and women of influence, the mothers and fathers are so worked up over the rottenness of it all that they want to house-clean their own surroundings."

"One thing that should be done in New York and other towns is to put the name of the owner of every building on a little tablet by the door. If that was done here in New York," said the inspector, "you'd be surprised to see how much real estate would be sold by church vestries, charitable organizations, bankers, old families, and other people who get big profits from the high rent that a questionable tenant is willing to pay."

"Madame Blanche, and these poor specimens of manhood with her are guilty of trafficking in girls for sale in different states. These Swedes were to be sent to Minnesota, and her records show that she has been supplying the Crib, in New Orleans, and what's left of the Barbary Coast in Chicago. Why, she has sent six girls to the Beverly Club in Chicago during the last month."

"Where does she get them all?" asked Burke. "I've been trailing some of these gangsters, but they certainly can't supply them all, like this."

The detective shook his head, and spoke slowly.

"There are about three big clearing houses of vice in New York, and they are run by men of genius, wealth and enormous power. I'm going to run them down yet. You've helped on this, Officer Burke. If you can do more and get at the men higher up—there's not a mention of their location in all of Blanche's accounts, not a single check book—then, you will get a big reward from the Department of Justice. For Uncle Sam is not sleeping with the enemy inside his fortifications."

Burke's eyes snapped with the fighting spirit.

"I've been doing my best with them since I got on the force, and I hope to do more if they don't finish me first. A little Italian fruit man down in my precinct sent word to me to-day that they were 'after me.' So, maybe I will not have a chance."

Van Nostrand interrupted at this point.

"Well, Officer 4434, you can have the backing of all the money you need as far as I am concerned. You'll have to come down to my offices some day soon, and we'll work out a plan of getting after these people. Can I do anything more, inspector?"

The official shook his head.

"There's a poor young woman here who is half drugged, and doesn't know who she is," he began.

"Well, send her to some good private hospital and have her taken care of and send the bill to me," said Reggie. "I've got to be getting downtown. Goodbye, Officer Burke, don't forget me."

"Goodbye—you've been a fine chauffeur and a better detective," said the young policeman, "even if you are a millionaire." And the two young men laughed with an unusual cordiality as they shook hands. Despite the difference in their stations it was the similarity of red blood in them both which melted away the barriers, and later developed an unconventional and permanent friendship between them.

Burke talked with Henrietta Bailey, the country girl, who sat dejectedly in the station house. She had no plans for the future, having come to the big city to look for a position, trusting in the help of the famous Y.W.C.A. organization, of whose good deeds and protection she had heard so much, even in the little town up state.

"I'll call them up, down at their main offices," said Bobbie, "but it's a big society and they have all they can do. Wouldn't you like to meet a nice sweet girl who will take a personal interest in you, and go down there with you herself?"

Henrietta tried to hold back the tears.

"Oh, land sakes," she began, stammering, "I ... do ... want to just blubber on somebody's shoulder. I'm skeered of all these New York folks, and I'm so lonesome, Mr. Constable."

"We'll just cure that, then," answered Burke. "I'll introduce you to the very finest girl in the world, and she'll show you that hearts beat as warmly in a big city as they do in a village of two hundred people."

Bobbie lost no time in telephoning Mary Barton, who was just on the point of leaving Monnarde's candy store.

She came directly uptown to meet the country girl and take her to the modest apartment for the night.

Bobbie devoted the interim to making his report on the unusual circumstances of his one-man raid ... and dodging the police reporters who were on the scene like hawks as soon as the news had leaked out.

Despite his declaration that the credit should go to the precinct in which the arrests had been made half a dozen photographers, with their black artillery-like cameras had snapped views of the house, and some grotesque portraits of the young officer. Other camera men, with newspaper celerity, had captured the aristocratic features of Reggie Van Nostrand and his racing car, as he sat in it before his Fifth Avenue club. It was such a story that city editors gloated over, and it was to give the embarrassed policeman more trouble than it was worth.

Bobbie's telephone report to Captain Sawyer, explaining his absence from the downtown station house was greeted with commendation.

"That's all right, Burke, go as far as you like. A few more cases like that and you'll be on the honor list for the Police Parade Day. Clean it up as soon as you can," retorted his superior.

When Mary took charge of Henrietta Bailey, the hapless girl felt as though life were again worth living. After a good cry in the matron's room, she was bundled up, her rattan suitcase and the weather-beaten band boxes were carried over to the Barton home.

"I don't know whether you had better say anything about this Baxter to Lorna or not," said Bobbie, as he stood outside the house, to start on his way downtown. "It's a horrible affair, and her escape from the man's clutches was a close one."

"She's cured now, however," stoutly declared Mary. "I have no fears for Lorna."

"Then do as you think best. I'll see you to-morrow afternoon, there at the store, and you can take supper downtown with me if you would like. If there is any way I can help about this girl let me know."

They separated, and Mary took her guest upstairs.

Her father was greatly excited for he had just put the finishing touches on his dictagraph-recorder. His mind was so over-wrought with his work that Mary thought it better not to tell him of the exciting afternoon until later. She simply introduced Henrietta as a friend from the country who was going to spend the night. Lorna was courteous enough to the newcomer, but seemed abstracted and dreamy. She neglected the little household duties, making the burden harder for Mary. Henrietta's rustic training, however, asserted itself, and she gladly took a hand in the preparation of the evening meal.

"I've a novel I want to finish reading, Mary," said her sister, "and if you don't mind I'm going to do it. You and Miss Bailey don't need me. I'll go into our room until supper is ready."

"What is it, dear? It must be very interesting," replied Mary, a shade of uneasiness coming over her. "You are not usually so literary after the hard work at the store all day."

Lorna laughed.

"It's time I improved my mind, then. A friend gave it to me—it's the story of a chorus girl who married a rich club man, by Robin Chalmers, and oh, Mary! It's simply the most exciting thing you ever read. The stage does give a girl chances that she never gets working in a store, doesn't it?"

"There are several kinds of chances, Lorna," answered the older girl slowly. "There are many girls who beautify their own lives by their success on the stage, but you know, there are a great many more who find in that life a terrible current to fight against. While they may make large salaries, as measured against what you and I earn, they must rehearse sometimes for months without salary at all. If the show is successful they are in luck for a while, and their pictures are in every paper. They spend their salary money to buy prettier clothes and to live in beautiful surroundings, and they gauge their expenditures upon what they are earning from week to week. But girls I have known tell me that is the great trouble. For when the play loses its popularity, or fails, they have accustomed themselves to extravagant tastes, and they must rehearse for another show, without money coming in."

"Oh, but a clever girl can pick out a good opportunity."

"No, she can't. She is dependent upon the judgment of the managers, and if you watch and see that two of every three shows put on right in New York never last a month out, you'll see that the managers' judgment is not so very keen. Even the best season of a play hardly lasts thirty weeks—a little over half a year, and so you must divide a girl's salary in two to find what she makes in a year's time. You and I, in the candy store, are making more money than a girl who gets three times the money a week on the stage, for we have a whole year of work, and we don't have to go to manicures and modistes and hairdressers two or three times a week."

"Well, I wish we did!" retorted Lorna petulantly. "There's no romance in you, Mary. You're just humdrum and old-fashioned and narrow. Think of the beautiful costumes, and the lights, the music, the applause of thousands! Oh, it must be wonderful to thrill an audience, and have hundreds of men worshiping you, and all that, Mary."

Her sister's eyes filled with tears as she turned away.

"Go on with your book, Lorna," she murmured. "Maybe some day you'll read one which will teach you that old fashions are not so bad, that there's romance in home and that the true, decent love of one man is a million times better than the applause, and the flowers, and the flattery of hundreds. I've read such books."

"Hum!" sniffed Lorna, "I don't doubt it. Written by old maids who could never attract a man, nor look pretty themselves. Well, none of the girls I know bother with such books: there are too many lively ones written nowadays. Call me when supper is ready, for I'm hungry."

And she adjusted her curls before flouncing into the bedroom to lose herself in the adventures of the patchouli heroine.

It was a quiet evening at the Barton home. The father was too engrossed to give more than abstracted heed, even to the appetizing meal. Mary forbore to interrupt his thoughts about the new machine. She felt a hesitation about narrating the afternoon's adventures of Bobbie Burke to Lorna, for the girl seemed estranged and eager only for the false romance of her novel. With Henrietta, Mary discussed the opportunities for work in the great city, already overcrowded with struggling girls. So convincing was she, the country lass decided that she would take the train next morning back to the little town where she could be safe from the excitement and the dangers of the city lure.

"I reckon I'm a scared country mouse," she declared. "But I'm old enough to know a warning when I get one. The Lord didn't intend me to be a city girl, or he wouldn't have given me this lesson to-day. I've got my old grand dad up home, and there's Joe Mills, who is foreman in the furniture factory. I think I'd better get back and help Joe spend his eighteen a week in the little Clemmons house the way he wanted me to do."

"You couldn't do a better thing in the world," said Mary, patting her hand gently as they sat in the cosy little kitchen. "Your little town would be a finer place to bring up little Joes and little Henriettas than this big city, wouldn't it? And I don't believe the right Joe ever comes but once in a girl's life. There aren't many fellows who are willing to share eighteen a week with a girl in New York."

Mary's guest blushed happily as the light of a new determination shone in her eyes. She opened a locket which she wore on a chain around her neck.

"I always thought Joe was nice, and all that—but I read these here stories about the city fellers, and I seen the pictures in the magazines, and thought Joe was a rube. But he ain't, is he?"

She held up the little picture, as she opened the locket, for Mary's scrutiny. The honest, smiling face, the square jaw, the clear eyes of Joe looked forth as though in greeting of an old friend.

"You can't get back to Joe any too quickly," advised Mary, and Henrietta wiped her eyes. She had received a homeopathic cure of the city madness in one brief treatment!

It was not a quiet evening for Officer 4434.

When he emerged from the Subway at Fourteenth Street a newsboy approached him with a bundle of papers.

"Uxtry! Uxtry!" shouted the youngster. "Read all about de cop and de millionaire dat captured de white slavers!"

The lad shoved a paper at Bobbie, who tossed him a nickel and hurried on, quizzically glancing at the flaring headlines which featured the name of Reggie Van Nostrand and his own. The quickly made illustrations, showing his picture, the machine of the young clubman, and the house of slavery were startling. The traditional arrow indicated "where the battle was fought," and Burke laughed as he studied the sensational report.

"Well, I look more like a gangster, according to this picture, than Jimmie the Monk! Those news photographers don't flatter a fellow very much."

At the station house he was warmly greeted by his brother officers. It was embarrassing, to put it mildly; Burke had no desire for a pedestal.

"Oh, quit it, boys," he protested. "You fellows do more than this every day of your lives. I'm only a rookie and I know it. I don't want this sort of thing and wish those fool reporters had minded their own business."

"That's all right, Bobbie," said Doctor MacFarland, who had dropped in on his routine call, "you'd better mind your own p's and q's, for you will be a marked man in this neighborhood. It's none too savory at best. You know how these gunmen hate any policeman, and now they've got your photograph and your number they won't lose a minute to use that knowledge. Keep your eyes on all points of the compass when you go out to-night."

"I'll try not to go napping, Doc," answered Burke gratefully. "You're a good friend of mine, and I appreciate your advice. But I don't expect any more trouble than usual."

After his patrol duty Burke was scheduled for a period on fixed post. It was the same location as that on which he had made the acquaintance of Jimmie the Monk and Dutch Annie several months before. As a coincidence, it began to storm, just as it had on that memorable evening, except that instead of the blighting snow blizzards, furious sheets of rain swept the dirty streets, and sent pedestrians under the dripping shelter of vestibules and awnings.

Burke, without the protection of a raincoat, walked back and forth in the small compass of space allowed the peg-post watcher, beating his arms together to warm himself against the sickening chill of his dripping clothes.

As he waited he saw a man come out of the corner saloon.

It was no other than Shultberger, the proprietor of the cafe and its cabaret annex. The man wore a raincoat, and a hat pulled down over his eyes. He came to the middle of the crossing and closely scrutinized the young policeman.

"Is dot you, Burke?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes, what do you want of me?"

"Veil, I joost vanted to know dat a good man vos on post to-night, for I expect troubles mit dese gun-men. Dey don't like me, und I t'ought I'd find out who vos here."

This struck 4434 as curious. He knew that Shultberger was the guardian angel of the neighborhood toughs in time of storm and trouble. Yet he was anxious to do his duty.

"What's the trouble? Are they starting anything?"

The saloon man shook his head as he started back to his cafe.

"Oh, no. But ve all know vot a fighter you vos to-day. De papers is full mit it. Dey've got purty picture of you, too. I joost vos skeered dot dey might pick on me because I vos always running a orderly place, und because I'm de frend of de police. I'll call you if I need you."

He disappeared in the doorway.

Burke watched him, thinking hard. Perhaps they were planning some deviltry, but he could not divine the purpose of it. At any rate he was armed with his night stick and his trusty revolver. He had a clear space in which to protect himself, and he was not frightened by ghosts. So, alert though he was, his mind was not uneasy.

He turned casually, on his heels, to look up the Avenue. He was startled to see two stocky figures within five feet of him. That quick right-about had saved him from an attack, although he did not realize it. The approach of the men had been absolutely noiseless.

The rain beat down in his face, and the men hesitated an instant, as though interrupted in some plan. It did not occur to Burke that they had approached him with a purpose.

He looked at them sharply, by force of habit. Their evil faces showed pallid and grewsome in the flickering light of the arc-lamp on the corner by Shultberger's place.

The two men glared at him shrewdly, and then passed on by without a word. They walked half way down the block, and Burke, watching them from the corner of his eye, saw them cross the street and turn into the rear entrance of Shultberger's cabaret restaurant.

"Well, he's having some high-class callers to-night," mused Burke. "Perhaps he'll need a little help after all."

Even as he thought this he heard a crash of broken glass, and he turned abruptly toward the direction of the sound.

The arc-light had gone out.

Burke walked across the street and fumbled with his feet, feeling the broken glass which had showered down near the base of the pole.

"I wonder what happened to that lamp? They don't burst of their own accord like this generally."

He walked back to his position. The street was now very dark, because the nearest burning arc-lamp was half a block to the south. As Burke pondered on the situation he heard footsteps to his left. He turned about and a familiar voice greeted him. It was Patrolman Maguire.

"Well, Burke, your sins should sure be washed away in this deluge! I thought that I'd step up a minute and give you a chance to go get some dry clothes and a raincoat. You've another hour on the peg before I relieve you, but hustle down to the station house and rig yourself up, me lad."

It was a welcome cheery voice from the dismal night shades. But Burke objected to the suggestion.

"No, Maguire, I'll stick it out. I think there's trouble brewing, and it's only sixty more minutes. You keep on your patrol. We both might get a call-down for changing."

"Well, begorra, if there's any call-down for a little humanity, I don't give a rap. You go get some dry clothes. I know Cap. Sawyer won't mind. You can be back here in five minutes. You've done enough to-day to deserve a little consideration, me boy. Hustle now!"

Burke was chilled to the marrow and his teeth chattered, even though it was a Spring rain, and not the icy blasts of the earlier post nights.

"Well, keep a sharp lookout for this crowd around Shultberger's, Mack!"

He yielded, and turned toward the station house with a quick stride. He had hardly gone half a block before Maguire had reason to remember the warning. A cry of distress came from the vestibule of Shultberger's front entrance. The lights of the saloon had been suddenly extinguished.

"Sure, and that's some monkey business," thought Maguire, as he ran toward the doorway.

He pounded on the pavement with his night stick, and the resonant sound stopped Burke's retreat to the station. Officer 4434 wheeled about and ran for the post he had just left.

Maguire had barely reached the doorway of the saloon when a revolver shot rang out, and the red tongue licked his face.

"Now we got 'im!" cried a voice.

"Kill the rookie!"

"That's Burke, all right!"

Maguire felt a stinging sensation in his shoulder, and his nightstick dropped with a thud to the sidewalk. Three figures pounded upon him, and again the revolver spoke. This time there was no fault in the aim. A gallant Irish soul passed to its final goal as the weapon barked for the third time.

Burke's heart was in his mouth; it was no personal fear, but for the beloved comrade whom he felt sure had stepped into the fate intended for himself. He drew his revolver as he ran, and swung his stick from its leathern handle thong resoundingly on the sidewalk as he raced toward the direction of the scuffle.

A short figure darted out from a doorway as he approached the corner and deftly stuck a foot forward, tripping the policeman.

"Beat it, fellers!" called this adept, whose voice Burke recognized as that of Jimmie the Monk. It was a clever campaign which the gangsters had laid out, but their mistake in picking the man cost them dearly.

As he called, the Monk darted down the street for a quick escape, feeling confident that his enemy was lying dead in the doorway on the corner. Burke forgot the orders of the Mayor against the use of fire-arms; his mind inadvertently swung into the fighting mood of the old days in the Philippines, when native devils were dealt justice as befitted their own methods.

He had fallen heavily on the wet pavement, and slid. But, at the recognition of that evil voice, he rolled over, and half lying on the pavement he leveled his revolver at the fleeting figure of the gang leader.

Bang! One shot did the work, and Jimmie the Monk crumpled forward, with a leg which was never again to lead in another Bowery "spiel" or club prize fight.

"He's fixed," thought Burke, and he sprang up, to run forward to the vestibule of Shultberger's. There he found the body of Maguire sprawled out, with the blood of the Irish kings mingling with the rainwater on the East Side street.

One man was hiding in the doorway's shelter. Another was scuttling down the street, to run full into the arms of an approaching roundsman.

As Burke stooped over the form of his comrade a black-jack struck his shoulder. He sprang upward, partially numbed from the blow, but summoning all his strength he caught the gangster by the arm and shoulder and flung him bodily through the glass door which smashed with a clatter.

Burke kicked at the door as he fought with the murderer, and his weight forced it open.

A whisky bottle whizzed through the air from behind the bar. Shultberger was in the battle. Burke's night stick ended the struggle with his one assailant, and he ran for the long bar, which he vaulted, as the saloon-keeper dodged backward. Another revolver shot reverberated as the proprietor retreated. But, at this rough and tumble fight, Burke used the greatest fighting projectile of the policeman; he threw the loaded night stick with unerring aim, striking Shultberger full in the face. The man screamed as he fell backward.

Half a dozen policemen had surrounded the saloon by this time, and Burke fumbled around until he found the electric light switch near the cash register. He threw a flood of light on the scene of destruction.

Shultberger, pulling himself up to his knees, his face and mouth gory from the catapult's stroke, moaned with agony as he clawed blindly. Patrolman White was tugging at the gangster who had been knocked unconscious by Burke's club. Outside two of the uniformed men were reverently lifting the corpse of Terence Maguire, who was on his Eternal Fixed Post.

"Have ... have you sent ... for an ambulance?" cried Bobbie.

"Yes, Burke," said the sergeant, who had examined the dead man. "But it's too late. Poor Mack, poor old Mack!"

A patrol wagon was clanging its gong as the driver spurred the horses on. Captain Sawyer dismounted from the seat by the driver. The bad news had traveled rapidly. Suddenly Burke, remembering the fleeing Jimmie, dashed from the saloon, and forced his way through the swarming crowd which had been drawn from the neighboring tenements by the excitement.

"Is the boy crazy?" asked Sawyer. "Hurry, White, and notify the Coroner, for I don't intend to allow Terence Maguire to lie in this rotten den very long."

Burke ran along the wet street, looking vainly for the wounded gang-leader. Jimmie was not in sight! Burke went the entire length of the block, and then slowly retraced his steps.

He scrutinized every hallway and cellar entrance.

At last his vigilance was rewarded. Down the steps, beneath a half-opened bulkhead door, he found his quarry.

The Monk was moaning with pain from a shattered leg-bone.

Burke clambered down and tried to lift the wounded man.

"Get up here!" he commanded.

"Oh, dey didn't get ye, after all!" cried Jimmie, recognizing his voice. He sank his teeth in the hand which was stretched forth to help him. Burke swung his left hand, still numb from the black-jack blow on his shoulder, and caught the ruffian's nose and forehead. A vigorous pull drew the fellow's teeth loose with a jerk.

"Well, you dog!" grunted the policeman, as he dragged the gangster to the street level. "You'll have iron bars to bite before many hours, and then the electric chair!"

Jimmie's nerve went back on him.

"Oh, Gaud! Dey can't do dat! I didn't do it. I wasn't dere!"

Burke said nothing, but holding the man down to the pavement with a knee on his back, he whistled for the patrol wagon.

The prisoners were soon arraigned, Shultberger, Jimmie the Monk and the first gangster were sent to the hospital shortly after under guard. The second runner, who had been caught by White, was searched, and by comparison of the weapons and the empty chambers of each one the police deduced that it was he who had fired the shots which killed Maguire. The entire band, including the saloon-keeper, were equally guilty before the law, and their trial and sentencing to pay the penalty were assured.

But back in the station house, late that night, the thought of punishment brought little consolation to a heart-broken corps of policemen.

Big, husky men sobbed like women. Death on duty was no stranger in their lives; but the loss of rollicking, generous Maguire was a bitter shock just the same.

And next morning, as Burke read the papers, after a wretched, sleepless night, he saw the customary fifteen line article, headed: "ANOTHER POLICEMAN MURDERED BY GANGSTERS." Five million fellow New Yorkers doubtless saw the brief story as well, and passed it by to read the baseball gossip, the divorce news, or the stock quotations—without a fleeting thought of regret.

It was just the same old story, you know.

Had it been the story of a political boss's beer-party to the bums of his ward; had it been an account of Mrs. Van Astorbilt's elopement with a plumber; had it been the life-story of a shooting show girl; had it been the description of the latest style in slit skirts; had it been a sarcastic message from some drunken, over-rated city official; had it been a sympathy-squad description of the hardships and soul-beauties of a millionaire murderer it would have met with close attention.

But what is so stale as the oft-told, ever-old yarn of a policeman's death?

"What do we pay them for?"



CHAPTER XIII

LORNA'S QUEST FOR PLEASURE

In the same morning papers Burke saw lengthy notices of the engagement of Miss Sylvia Trubus, only child of William Trubus, the famous philanthropist, to Ralph Gresham, the millionaire manufacturer of electrical machinery.

"There, that should interest Mr. Barton. His ex-employer is marrying into a very good family, to put it mildly, and Trubus will have a very rich son-in-law! I wonder if she'll be as happy as I intend to make Mary when she says the word?"

He cut one of the articles out of the paper, putting it into his pocket to show Mary that evening. He had a wearing and sorrowful day; his testimony was important for the arraignment of the dozen or more criminals who had been rounded up through his efforts during the preceding twenty-four hours. The gloom of Maguire's death held him in its pall throughout the day in court.

He hurried uptown to meet Mary as she left the big confectionery store at closing time.

Mary had been busy and worried through the day. At noon she had gone to the station to bid goodbye to Henrietta Bailey, who was now well on her way to the old town and Joe.

As the working day drew to a close Mary was kept busy filling a large order for a kindly faced society woman and her pretty daughter.

"You have waited on me several times before," she told Mary, "and you have such good taste. I want the very cutest bon-bons and favors, and they must be delivered up on Riverside Drive to our house in time for dinner. You know my daughter's engagement was announced in the papers to-day, while we had intended to let it be a surprise at a big dinner party to-night. Well, the dear girl is very happy, and I want this dinner to give her one of the sweetest memories of her life."

Mary entered into the spirit with zest, and being a clever saleswoman, she collected a wonderful assortment of dainty novelties and confections, while the manager of the store rubbed his hands together gleefully as he observed the correspondingly wonderful size of the bill.

"There, that should help the jollity along," said Mary. "I hope I have pleased you. I envy your daughter, not for the candies and the dinner, but for having such a mother. My mother has been dead for years."

The tears welled into her eyes, and the customer smiled tenderly at her.

"You are a dear girl, and if ever I have the chance to help you I will; don't forget it. I am so happy myself; perhaps selfishly so. But my life has been along such even lines, such a wonderful husband, and such a daughter. I am so proud of her. She is marrying a young man who is very rich, yet with a strong character, and he will make her very happy I am sure. Well, dear, I will give you my address, for I wish you would see personally that these goodies are delivered to us without delay."

Mary took her pad and pencil.

"Mrs. William Trubus—Riverside Drive."

The girl's expression was curious; she remembered Bobbie's description of the husband. It hardly seemed possible that such a man could be blessed with so sweet a wife and daughter—but such undeserved blessings seem too often to be the unusual injustice of Fate in this twisted, tangled old world, as Mary well knew.

"All right, Mrs. Trubus; I shall follow your instructions and will go to the delivery room myself to see that they are sent out immediately."

"Good afternoon, my dear," and Mrs. Trubus and her happy daughter left the store.

Mary was as good as her word, and she made sure that the several parcels were on their way to Riverside Drive before she returned to the front of the store. When she did so she saw a little tableau, unobserved by the busy clerks and customers, which made her heart stand still.

Lorna was standing by one of the bon-bon show cases talking to a tall stranger who ogled her in bold fashion, and a manner which indicated that the conversation was far from that of business.

"Who can that be?" thought Mary. An intuition of danger crept over her as she watched the shades of sinister suggestion on the face of the man who whispered to her sister.

The man was urging, Lorna half-protesting, as though refusing some enticing offer.

Mary stepped closer, and the deep tones of the stranger's voice filled her with a thrill of loathing. It was a voice which she felt she could never forget as long as she lived.



"Come up to my office with me when you finish work and I'll book you up this very evening. The show will open in two weeks, and I will give you a speaking part, maybe even one song to sing. You know I'm strong for you, little girl, and always have been. My influence counts a lot—and you know influence is the main thing for a successful actress!"

Mary could stand it no longer.

She touched Lorna on the arm, and the younger girl turned around guiltily, her eyes dropping as she saw her sister's stern questioning look.

"Who is this man, Lorna?"

The stranger smiled, and threw his head back defiantly.

"A friend of mine."

"What does he want?"

"That is none of your affair, Mary."

"It is my affair. You are employed here to work, not to talk with men nor to flirt. You had better attend to your work. And, as for you, I shall complain to the manager if you don't get out of here at once!"

The stranger laughed softly, but there was a brutal twitch to his jaw as he retorted: "I'm a customer here, and I guess the manager won't complain if I spend money. Here, little girlie, pick me out a nice box of chocolates. The most expensive you have. I'm going to take my sweetheart out to dinner, and I am a man who spends his money right. I'm not a cheap policeman!"

Mary's face paled.

Her blood boiled, and only the breeding of generations of gentlewomen restrained her from slapping the man's face. She watched Lorna, who could not restrain a giggle, as she took down a be-ribboned candy box, and began to fill it with chocolate dainties.

"Oh, if Bobbie were only here!" thought Mary in despair. "This man is a villain. It is he who has been filling Lorna's mind with stage talk. I don't believe he is a theatrical man, either. They would not insult me so!"

The manager bustled about.

"Closing time, girls. Get everything orderly now, and hurry up. You know, the boss has been kicking about the waste light bills which you girls run up in getting things straight at the end of the day."

Mary turned to her own particular counter, and she saw the big man leave the store, as the manager obsequiously bowed him out.

In the wardrobe room where they kept their wraps, Mary took Lorna aside. Her eyes were flaming orbs, as she laid a trembling hand upon the girl's arm.

"Lorna, you are not going to that man's office?"

"Oh, not right away," responded her sister airily. "We are going to Martin's first for a little dinner, and maybe a tango or two. What's that to you, Mary? Stick to your policeman."

Mary dropped her hand weakly. She put on her hat and street-coat, hardly knowing what she was doing.

"Oh, Lorna, child, you are so mistaken, so weak," she began.

"I'm not weak, nor foolish. A girl can't live decently on the money they pay in this place. I'm going to show how strong I am by earning a real salary. I can get a hundred a week on the stage with my looks, and my voice, and my ... figure...."

In spite of her bravado she hesitated at the last word. It was a little daring, even to her, and she was forcing a bold front to maintain her own determination, for the girl had hesitated at the man's pleadings until her sister's interference had piqued her into obstinacy.

"It won't hurt to find out how much I can get, even if I don't take the offer at all," Lorna thought. "I simply will not submit to Mary's dictation all the time."

Lorna hurried to the street, closely followed by her sister.

"Don't go, dear," pleaded Mary.

But there by the curb panted a big limousine, such as Lorna had always pictured waiting for her at a stage door; the big man smiled as he held open the door. Lorna hesitated an instant. Then she espied, coming around the corner toward them, Bobbie Burke, on his way to meet Mary.

That settled it. She ran with a laugh toward the door of the automobile and flounced inside, while the big man followed her, slamming the portal as the car moved on.

"Oh, Bob," sobbed Mary, as the young officer reached her side. "Follow them."

"What's the matter?"

"Look, that black automobile!"

"Yes, yes!"

"Lorna has gone into it with a theatrical manager. She is going on the stage!" and Mary caught his hand tensely as she dashed after the car.

It was a hopeless pursuit, for another machine had already come between them. It was impossible for Burke to see the number of the car, and then it turned around the next corner and was lost in the heavy traffic.