



Produced by Al Haines










[Frontispiece: If ever prayer came from the depths of a broken heart,
it was that forlorn plea for the lost sister.]





TRAFFIC IN SOULS

_A Novel of Crime and Its Cure_



BY

EUSTACE HALE BALL



  _ILLUSTRATIONS FROM SCENES
  IN THE PHOTO-PLAY_




G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

PUBLISHERS ---- NEW YORK




COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY



_Traffic in Souls_

_This novel is based in part upon the scenario of the photo-drama of
the same name written by Walter MacNamara and produced by the UNIVERSAL
FILM MANUFACTURING COMPANY, New York City.  The incidents and
characterisations are founded upon stories of real life.  Actual scenes
of the underworld haunts are faithfully reproduced.  The criminal
methods of the traffickers are substantiated by the reports of the John
D. Rockefeller, Jr., Investigating Committee for the Suppression of
Vice, and District Attorney Whitman's White Slave Report._




Press of

J. J. Little & Ives Co.

New York




  TO
  THAT FEARLESS AMERICAN CITIZEN
  AND STERLING PUBLIC OFFICIAL,
  CHARLES S. WHITMAN,
  DISTRICT ATTORNEY FOR THE BOROUGH
  OF MANHATTAN, IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK,
  THIS BOOK IS ADMIRINGLY DEDICATED.
  E. H. B.





  "_What has man done here?  How atone,
  Great God, for this which man has done?
  And for the body and soul which by
  Man's pitiless doom must now comply
  With lifelong hell, what lullaby
  Of sweet forgetful second birth
  Remains?  All dark. No sign on earth
  What measure of God's rest endows
  The Many mansions of His house._

  "_If but a woman's heart might see
  Such erring heart unerringly
  For once! But that can never be._

  "_Like a rose shut in a book
  In which pure women may not look,
  For its base pages claim control
  To crush the flower within the soul;
  Where through each dead roseleaf that clings,
  Pale as transparent psyche-wings,
  To the vile text, are traced such things
  As might make lady's cheek indeed
  More than a living rose to read;
  So nought save foolish foulness may
  Watch with hard eyes the sure decay;
  And so the lifeblood of this rose,
  Puddled with shameful knowledge flows
  Through leaves no chaste hand may unclose;
  Yet still it keeps such faded show
  Of when 'twas gathered long ago,
  That the crushed petals' lovely grain,
  The sweetness of the sanguine stain,
  Seen of a woman's eyes must make
  Her pitiful heart, so prone to ache,
  Love roses better for its sake:--
  Only that this can never be:--
  Even so unto her sex is she!_

  "_Yet, Jenny, looking long at you,
  The woman almost fades from view.
  A cipher of man's changeless sum
  Of lust, past, present, and to come,
  Is left.  A riddle that one shrinks
  To challenge from the scornful sphinx._

  "_Like a toad within a stone
  Seated while Time crumbles on;
  Which sits there since the earth was curs'd
  For Man's transgression at the first;
  Which, living through all centuries,
  Not once has seen the sun arise;
  Whose life, to its cold circle charmed,
  The earth's whole summers have not warmed;
  Which always--whitherso the stone
  Be flung--sits there, deaf, blind, alone;--
  Aye, and shall not be driven out
  'Till that which shuts him round about
  Break at the very Master's stroke,
  And the dust thereof vanished as smoke,
  And the seed of Man vanished as dust:--
  Even so within this world is Lust!_"

  --From "Jenny," by Dante Gabriel Rosetti.




CONTENTS

CHAPTER

    I.  NIGHT COURT
   II.  WHEN LOVE COMES VISITING
  III.  THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT
   IV.  WHAT THE DOCTOR SAID
    V.  ROSES AND THORNS
   VI.  THE WORK OF THE GANGSTERS
  VII.  THE CLOSER BOND
 VIII.  THE PURITY LEAGUE AND ITS ANGEL
   IX.  THE BUSY MART OF TRADE
    X.  WHEN THE TRAIN COMES IN
   XI.  THE POISONED NEEDLE
  XII.  THE REVENGE OF JIMMIE THE MONK
 XIII.  LORNA'S QUEST FOR PLEASURE
  XIV.  CHARITY AND THE MULTITUDE OF SINS
   XV.  THE FINISH




ILLUSTRATIONS


If ever prayer came from the depths of a broken heart, it was that
forlorn plea for a lost sister . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

"This is my friend, Sam Shepard, the theatrical manager, Miss Lorna.
He's the man who can get you on the stage"

"I'm going to shoot to kill.  Every court in the state will sustain a
policeman who shoots a white-slaver"

The deep tones of the stranger's voice filled Mary with a thrill of
loathing

Father and daughter were frantic with grief

The pretended philanthropist was cornered at last




TRAFFIC IN SOULS


CHAPTER I

NIGHT COURT

Officer 4434 beat his freezing hands together as he stood with his back
to the snow-laden north-easter, which rattled the creaking signboards
of East Twelfth Street, and covered, with its merciful shroud of wet
flakes, the ash-barrels, dingy stoops, gaudy saloon porticos and other
architectural beauties of the Avenue corner.

Officer 4434 was on "fixed post."

This is an institution of the New York police department which makes it
possible for citizens to locate, in time of need, a representative of
the law.  At certain street crossings throughout the boroughs bluecoats
are assigned to guard-duty during the night, where they can keep close
watch on the neighboring thoroughfares.  The "fixed post" increases the
efficiency of the service, but it is a bitter ordeal on the men.

Officer 4434 shivered under his great coat.  He pulled the storm hood
of his cap closer about his neck as he muttered an opinion, far from
being as cold as the biting blast, concerning the Commissioner who had
installed the system.  He had been on duty over an hour, and even his
sturdy young physique was beginning to feel the strain of the Arctic
temperature.

"I wonder when Maguire is coming to relieve me?" muttered 4434, when
suddenly his mind left the subject, as his keen vision descried two
struggling figures a few yards down the dark side of Twelfth Street.

There was no outcry for help.  But 4434 knew his precinct too well to
wait for that.  He quietly walked to the left corner and down toward
the couple.  As he neared them the mist of the eddying snowflakes
became less dense; he could discern a short man twisting the arm of a
tall woman, who seemed to be top heavy from an enormous black-plumed
hat.  The faces of the twain were still indistinct.  The man whirled
the woman about roughly.  She uttered a subdued moan of pain, and 4434,
as he softly approached them, his footfalls muffled by the blanket of
white, could hear her pleading in a low tone with the man.

"Aw, kid, I ain't got none ... I swear I ain't...  Oh, oh ... ye know I
wouldn't lie to ye, kid!"

"Nix, Annie.  Out wid it, er I'll bust yer damn arm!"

"Jimmie, I ain't raised a nickel to-night ... dere ain't even a sailor
out a night like dis...  Oh, oh, kid, don't treat me dis way..."

Her voice died down to a gasp of pain.

Officer 4434 was within ten feet of the couple by this time.  He
recognized the type though not the features of the man, who had now
wrenched the woman's arm behind her so cruelly that she had fallen to
her knees, in the snow.  The fellow was so intent upon his quest for
money that he did not observe the approach of the policeman.

But the woman caught a quick glimpse of the intruder into their
"domestic" affairs.  She tried to warn her companion.

"Jimmie, dere's a..."

She did not finish, for her companion wished to end further argument
with his own particular repartee.

He swung viciously with his left arm and brought a hard fist across the
woman's pleading lips.  She screamed and sank back limply.

As she did so, Officer 4434 reached forward with a vise-like grip and
closed his tense fingers about the back of Jimmie's muscular neck.
Holding his night stick in readiness for trouble, with that knack
peculiar to policemen, he yanked the tough backward and threw him to
his knees.  Annie sprang to her feet.

"Lemme go!" gurgled the surprised Jimmie, as he wriggled to get free.
Without a word, the woman who had been suffering from his brutality,
now sprang upon the rescuing policeman with the fury of a lioness
robbed of her cub.  She clawed at the bluecoat's face and cursed him
with volubility.

"I'll git you broke fer this!" groaned Jimmie, as 4434 held him to his
knees, while Annie tried to get her hold on the officer's neck.  It was
a temptation to swing the night-stick, according to the laws of war,
and then protect himself against the fury of the frenzied woman.  But,
this is an impulse which the policeman is trained to subdue--public
opinion on the subject to the contrary notwithstanding.  Officer 4434
knew the influence of the gangsters with certain politicians, who had
influence with the magistrates, who in turn meted out summary
reprimands and penalties to policemen un-Spartanlike enough to defend
themselves with their legal weapons against the henchmen of the East
Side politicians!

Annie had managed by no mean pugilistic ability to criss-cross five
painful scratches with her nails, upon the policeman's face, despite
his attempt to guard himself.

Jimmie, with tactical resourcefulness, had twisted around in such a way
that he delivered a strong-jaw nip on the right leg of the policeman.

4434 suddenly released his hold on the man's neck, whipped out his
revolver and fired it in the air.  He would have used the signal for
help generally available at such a time, striking the night stick upon
the pavement, but the thick snow would have muffled the resonant alarm.

"Beat it, Annie, and git de gang!" cried out Jimmie as he scrambled to
his feet.  The woman sped away obediently, as Officer 4434 closed in
again upon his prisoner.  The gangster covered the retreat of the woman
by grappling the policeman with arms and legs.

The two fell to the pavement, and writhed in their struggle on the snow.

Jimmie, like many of the gang men, was a local pugilist of no mean
ability.  His short stature was equalized in fighting odds by a
tremendous bull strength.  4434, in his heavy overcoat, and with the
storm hood over his head and neck was somewhat handicapped.  Even as
they struggled, the efforts of the nimble Annie bore fruit.  In
surprisingly brief time a dozen men had rushed out from the neighboring
saloon, and were giving the doughty policeman more trouble than he
could handle.

Suddenly they ran, however, for down the street came two speeding
figures in the familiar blue coats.  One of the officers was shrilly
blowing his whistle for reinforcements.  He knew what to expect in a
gang battle and was taking no chances.

Maguire, who had just come on to relieve 4434, lived up to his duty
most practically by catching the leg of the battling Jimmie, and giving
it a wrestling twist which threw the tough with a thud on the pavement,
clear of his antagonist.

4434 rose to his feet stiffly, as his rescuers dragged Jimmie to a
standing position.

"Well, Burke, 'tis a pleasant little party you do be having,"
volunteered Maguire.  "Sure, and you've been rassling with Jimmie the
Monk.  Was he trying to pick yer pockets?"

"Naw, I wasn't doin' nawthin', an' I'm goin' ter git that rookie broke
fer assaultin' me.  I'm goin' ter write a letter to the Mayor!" growled
Jimmie.

Officer Burke laughed a bit ruefully.

He mopped some blood off his face, from the nail scratches of Jimmie's
lady associate, and then turned toward the two officers.

"He didn't pick my pockets--it was just the old story, of beating up
his woman, trying to get the money she made on the street to-night.
When I tried to help her they both turned on me."

"Faith, Burke, I thought you had more horse sense," responded Maguire.
"That's a dangerous thing to do with married folks, or them as ought to
be married.  They'll fight like Kilkenny cats until the good Samaritan
comes along and then they form a trust and beat up the Samaritan."

"I think most women these days need a little beating up anyway, to keep
'em from worrying about their troubles," volunteered Officer Dexter.
"I'd have been happier if I had learned that in time."

"Say, nix on dis blarney, youse!" interrupted the Monk, who was trying
to wriggle out of the arm hold of Burke and Maguire.  "I ain't gonter
stand fer dis pinch wen I ain't done nawthin."

A police sergeant, who had heard the whistle as he made his rounds, now
came up.

"What's the row?" he gruffly exclaimed.  Burke explained.  The sergeant
shook his head.

"You're wasting time, Burke, on this sort of stuff.  When you've been
on the force a while longer you'll learn that it's the easiest thing to
look the other way when you see these men fighting with their women.
The magistrates won't do a thing on a policeman's word alone.  You just
see.  Now you've got to go down to Night Court with this man, get a
call down because you haven't got a witness, and this rummie gets set
free.  Why, you'd think these magistrates had to apologize for there
being a police force!  The papers go on about the brutality of the
police, and the socialists howl about Cossack methods, and the
ministers preach about graft and vice, and the reformers sit in their
mahogany chairs in the skyscraper offices and dictate poems about sin,
and the cops have to walk around and get hell beat out of 'em by these
<DW77>s and <DW6>s every time they tries to keep a little order!"

The sergeant turned to Maguire.

"You know these gangs around here, Mack.  Who's this guy's girl?"

"He's got three or four, sergeant," responded the officer.  "I guess
this one must be Dutch Annie.  Was she all dolled up with about a
hundred dollars' worth of ostrich feathers, Burke?"

"Yes--tall, and some fighter."

"That's the one.  Her hangout is over there on the corner, in
Shultberger's cabaret.  We can get her now, maybe."

The sergeant beckoned to Dexter.

"Run this guy over to the station house, and put him down on the
blotter for disorderly conduct, and assaulting an officer.  You get
onto your post, Maguire, or the Commish'll be shooting past here in a
machine on the way to some ball at the Ritz, and will have us all on
charges.  You come with me, Burke, and we'll nab that woman as a
material witness."

Burke and his superior crossed the street and quickly entered the
ornate portal of Shultberger's cabaret, which was in reality the annex
to his corner barroom.

As they strode in a waiter stood by a tuneless piano, upon which a
bloated "professor" was beating a tattoo of cheap syncopation
accompaniment of the advantages of "Bobbin' Up An' Down," which was
warbled with that peculiarly raucous, nasal tenor so popular in
Tenderloin resorts.  The musical waiter's jaw fell in the middle of a
bob, as he espied the blue uniforms.

He disappeared behind a swinging door with the professional skill of a
stage magician.

Sitting around the dilapidated wooden tables was a motley throng of
red-nosed women, loafers, heavy-jowled young aliens, and a scattering
of young girls attired in cheap finery; a prevailing color of chemical
yellow as to hair, and flaming red cheeks and lips.

Instinctively the gathering rose for escape, but the sergeant strode
forward to one particular table, where sat a girl nursing a bleeding
mouth.

Burke remained by the door to shut off that exit.

"Is this the one?" asked the sergeant, as he put his hands on the young
woman's shoulder.

Burke scrutinized her closely, responding quickly.

"Yes!"

"Come on, you," ordered the roundsman.  "I want you.  Quick!"

"Say, I ain't done a thing, what do ye want me fer?" whined the girl,
as the sergeant pulled at her sleeve.  The officer did not reply, but
he looked menacingly about him at the evil company.

"If any of you guys starts anything I'm going to call out the reserves.
Come on, Annie."

The proprietor, Shultberger, now entered from the front, after a
warning from his waiter.

"Vot's dis, sergeant?  Vot you buttin' in my place for?  Ain't I in
right?" he cried.

"Shut up.  This girl has been assaulting an officer, and I want her.
Come on, now, or I'll get the wagon here, and then there will be
trouble."

Annie began to pull back, and it looked as though some of the toughs
would interfere.  But Shultberger understood his business.

"Now, Annie, don't start nottings here.  Go on vid de officer.  I'll
fix it up all right.  But I don't vant my place down on de blotter.
Who vas it--Jimmie?"

The girl began to cry, and gulped the glass of whiskey on the table as
she finally yielded to the tug of the sergeant.

"Yes, it's Jimmie.  An' he wasn't doin' a ting.  Dese rookies is always
makin' trouble fer me."

She sobbed hysterically as the sergeant walked her out.  Shultberger
patted her on the shoulder reassuringly.

"Dot's all right, Annie.  I vouldn't let nodding happen to Jimmie.
I'll bail him out and you too.  Go along; dot's a good girl."  He
turned to his guests, and motioned to them to be silent.

The "professor," at the piano, used to such scenes, lulled the nerves
of the company with a rag-time variation of "Oh, You Beautiful Doll,"
and Burke, the sergeant and Annie went out into the night.

The girl was taken to the station.  The lieutenant looked questioningly
at Officer 4434.

"Want to put her down for assault?" he asked.

Burke looked at the unhappy creature.  Her hair was half-down her back,
and her lips swollen and bleeding from Jimmie's brutal blow.  The cheap
rouge on her face; the heavy pencilling of her brows, the crudely
applied blue and black grease paint about her eyes, the tawdry paste
necklace around her powdered throat; the pitifully thin silk dress in
which she had braved the elements for a few miserable dollars: all
these brought tears to the eyes of the young officer.

He was sick at heart.

The girl shivered and sobbed in that hysterical manner which indicates
weakness, emptiness, lack of soul--rather than sorrow.

"Poor thing--I couldn't do it.  I don't want to see her sent to
Blackwell's Island.  She's getting enough punishment every day--and
every night."

"Well, she's made your face look like a railroad map.  You're too soft,
young fellow.  I'll put her down as a material witness.  Go wash that
blood off, and we'll send 'em both down to Night Court.  You've done
yourself out of your relief butting in this way.  Take a tip from me,
and let these rummies fight it out among themselves after this as long
as they don't mix up with somebody worth while."

Burke wiped his eye with the back of his cold hand.  It was not snow
which had melted there.  He was young enough in the police service to
feel the pathos of even such common situations as this.

He turned quietly and went back to the washstand in the rear room of
the station.  The reserves were sitting about, playing checkers and
cards.  Some were reading.

Half a dozen of the men, fond of the young policeman, chatted with him,
and volunteered advice, to which Burke had no reply.

"Don't start in mixing up with the Gas Tank Gang over one of those
girls, Burke, for they're not worth it."

"You'll have enough to do in this precinct to look after your own skin,
and round up the street holdups, or get singed at a tenement fire."

And so it went.

The worldly wisdom of his fellows was far from encouraging.  Yet,
despite their cynical expressions, Burke knew that warm hearts and
gallant chivalry were lodged beneath the brass buttons.

There is a current notion among the millions of Americans who do not
know, and who have fortunately for themselves not been in the position
where they needed to know, that the policemen of New York are an
organized body of tyrannical, lying grafters who maintain their power
by secret societies, official connivance and criminal brute force.

Taken by and large, there is no fighting organization in any army in
the world which can compare with the New York police force for physical
equipment, quick action under orders or upon the initiative required by
emergencies, gallantry or _esprit de corps_.  For salaries barely equal
to those of poorly paid clerks or teamsters, these men risk their lives
daily, must face death at any moment, and are held under a discipline
no less rigorous than that of the regular army.  Their problems are
more complex than those of any soldiery; they deal with fifty different
nationalities, and are forced by circumstances to act as judge and
jury, as firemen, as life savers, as directories, as arbiters of
neighborhood squabbles and domestic wrangles.  Their greatest services
are rendered in the majority of cases which never call for arrest and
prosecution.  That there are many instances of petty "graft," and that,
in some cases, the "middle men" prey on the underworld cannot be denied.

But it is the case against a certain policeman which receives the
attention of the newspapers and the condemnation of the public, while
almost unheeded are scores of heroic deeds which receive bare mention
in the daily press.  For the misdeed of one bad policeman the gallantry
and self-sacrifice of a hundred pass without appreciation.

There have been but three recorded instances of cowardice in the annals
of the New York police force.  The memory of them still rankles in the
bosom of every member.  And yet the performance of duty at the cost of
life and limb is regarded by the uniformed men as merely being "all in
the day's work."  The men are anxious to do their duty in every way,
but political, religious, social and commercial influences are
continually erecting stone walls across the path of that duty.

Superhuman in wisdom, thrice blest in luck is the bluecoat who
conscientiously can live up to his own ideals, carry out the law as
written by his superiors without being sent to "rusticate with the
goats," or being demoted for stepping upon the toes of some of those
same superiors!

Officer Bobbie Burke betook himself to the Night Court to lodge his
complaint against Jimmie the Monk.  The woman, Dutch Annie, sniveling
and sobbing, was lodged in a cell near the gangster before being
brought before the rail to face the magistrate.

Burke saw that they could not communicate with each other, and so hoped
that he could have his own story accepted by the magistrate.  He stood
by the door of the crowded detention room, which opened into a larger
courtroom, where the prisoners were led one by one to the prisoner's
dock--in this case, a hand-rail two feet in front of the long desk of
the judge, while that worthy was seated on a platform which enabled him
to look down at the faces of the arraigned.

It was an apparently endless procession.

The class of arrests was monotonous.  Three of every four cases were
those of street women who had been arrested by "plain clothes" men or
detectives for solicitation on the street.

The accusing officer took a chair at the left of the magistrate.  The
uniformed attendant handed the magistrate the affidavits of complaint.
The judge mechanically scrawled his name at the bottom of the papers,
glanced at the words of the arraignments, and then scowled over the
edge of his desk at the flashily dressed girls before him.  They all
seemed slight variations on the same mould.

Perhaps one girl would simulate some hysterical sobs, and begin by
protesting her innocence.  Another would be hard and indifferent.  A
third, indignant.

"What about this, officer?" the judge would ask.  "Where did you see
this woman, what did you say, what did she say, and what happened?"

The detective, in a voice and manner as mechanical as that of the
judge, would mumble his oft repeated story, giving the exact minute of
his observations, the actions of the woman in accosting different
pedestrians and in her final approach to him.

"How many times before have you been arrested, girl?" the magistrate
would growl.

Sometimes the girls would admit the times; in most cases their memories
were defective, until the accusing officer would cite past history.
This girl had been arrested and paroled once before; that one had been
sent to "the Island" for thirty days; the next one was an habitual
offender.  It was a tragic monotony.  Sometimes the magistrate would
summon the sweet-faced matron to have a talk with some young girl,
evidently a "green one" for whom there might be hope.  There was more
kindliness and effort to reform the prisoners behind those piercing
eyes of the judge than one might have supposed to hear him drone out
his judgment: "Thirty days, Molly"; "Ten dollars, Aggie--the Island
next time, sure"; "Five dollars for you, Sadie," and so on.  There was
a weary, hopeless look in the magistrate's eyes, had you studied him
close at hand.  He knew, better than the reformers, of the horrors of
the social evil, at the very bottom of the cup of sin.  Better than
they could he understand the futility of garrulous legislation at the
State Capitol, to be offset by ignorance, avarice, weakness and disease
in the congestion of the big, unwieldy city.  When he fined the girls
he knew that it meant only a hungry day, one less silk garment or
perhaps a beating from an angry and disappointed "lover."  When he sent
them to the workhouse their activities were merely discontinued for a
while to learn more vileness from companions in their imprisonment; to
make for greater industry--busier vice and quicker disease upon their
return to the streets.  The occasional cases in which there was some
chance for regeneration were more welcome to him, even, than to the
weak and sobbing girls, hopeless with the misery of their early
defeats.  Yet, the magistrate knew only too well the miserable minimum
of cases which ever resulted in real rescue and removal from the sordid
existence.

Once as low as the rail of the Night Court--a girl seldom escaped from
the slime into which she had dragged herself.  And yet _had_ she
dragged herself there?  Was _she_ to blame?  Was she to pay the
consequences in the last Reckoning of Accounts?

This thought came to Officer Bobbie Burke as he watched the horrible
drama drag monotonously through its brief succession of sordid scenes.

The expression of the magistrate, the same look of sympathetic misery
on the face of the matron, and even on many of the detectives,
automatons who had chanted this same official requiem of dead souls,
years of nights ... not a sombre tone of the gruesome picture was lost
to Burke's keen eyes.

"Some one has to pay; some one has to pay!  I wonder who?" muttered
Officer 4434 under his breath.

There were cases of a different caliber.  Yet Burke could see in them
what Balzac called "social coordination."

Now a middle-aged woman, with hair unkempt, and hat awry, maudlin tears
in her swollen eyes, and swaying as she held the rail, looked shiftily
up into the magistrate's immobile face.

"You've been drunk again, Mrs. Rafferty?  This is twice during the last
fortnight that I've had you here."

"Yis, yer honor, an me wid two foine girls left home.  Oh, Saint Mary
protect me, an' oi'm a (hic) bad woman.  Yer honor, it's the fault of
me old man, Pat.  (Hic)  Oi'm _not_ a bad woman, yer honor."

The magistrate was kind as he spoke.

"And what does Pat do?"

"He beats me, yer honor (hic), until Oi sneak out to the family
intrance at the corner fer a quiet nip ter fergit it.  An' the girls,
they've been supportin' me (hic), an' payin the rint, an' buyin' the
vittles, an' (hic) it's a dog's life they lead, wid all their work.
When they go out wid dacint young min (hic), Pat cusses the young min,
an' beats the girls whin they come home (hic)."

Here the woman broke down, sobbing, while the attendant kept her from
swaying and falling.

"There, there, Mrs. Rafferty.  I'll suspend sentence this time.  But
don't let it happen another time.  You have Pat arrested and I'll teach
him something about treating you right."

"My God, yer honor (hic), the worst of it is it's me two girls--they
ain't got no home, but a drunken din, the next thing I knows they'll be
arristed (hic) and brought up before ye like these other poor divvels.
Yer honor, it's drunken Pats and min like him that's bringin' these
poor girls here--it ain't the cops an' the sports (hic), yer honor."

The woman staggered as the magistrate quietly signaled the attendant to
lead her through the gate, and up the aisle of the court to the outer
door.

As she passed by the spectators, two or three richly dressed young
women giggled and nudged the dapper youths with whom they were sitting.

"Silence!" cried the magistrate tersely.  "This is not a cabaret show.
I don't want any seeing-New-York parties here.  Sergeant, put those
people out of the court."

The officer walked up the aisle and ordered the society buds and their
escorts to leave.

"Why, we're studying sociology," murmured one girl.  "It's a very
stupid thing, however, down here."

"So vulgar, my dear," acquiesced her friend.  "There's nothing
interesting anyway.  Just the same old story."

They noisily arose, and walked out, while Officer Burke could hear one
of the gilded youths exclaim in a loud voice as they reached the outer
corridor:

"Come on, let's go up to Rector's for a little tango, and see some real
life...."

The magistrate who had heard it tapped his pen on the desk, and looked
quizzically at the matron.

"They are doubtless preparing some reform legislation for the suffrage
platform, Mrs. Grey, and I have inadvertently delayed the millennium.
Ah, a pity!"

Burke was impatient for the calling of his own case.  He was tired.  He
would have been hungry had he not been so nauseated by the sickening
environment.  He longed for the fresh air; even the snowstorm was
better than this.

But his turn had not come.  The next to be called was another answer to
his mental question.

A young woman with a blackened eye and a bleeding cheek was brought in
by a fat, jolly officer, who led a burly, sodden man with him.

The charge was quarreling and destroying the furniture of a neighbor in
whose flat the fight had taken place.

"Who started it?" asked the magistrate.

"She did, your honor.  She ain't never home when I wants my vittles
cooked, and she blows my money so there ain't nothing in the house to
eat for meself.  She's always startin' things, and she did this time
when I tells her to come on home...."

"Just a minute," interrupted the magistrate.  "What is the cause of
this, little woman?  Who struck you on the eye?"

The woman's lips trembled, and she glanced at the big fellow beside
her.  He glowered down at her with a threatening twist of his mouth.

"Why, your honor, you see, the baby was sick, and Joe, he went out with
the boys pay night, and we didn't have a cent in the flat, and I had
to..."

"Shut up, or I'll bust you when I get you alone!" muttered Joe, until
the judge pounded on the table with his gavel.

"You won't be where you can bust her!" sharply exclaimed the
magistrate.  "Go on, little woman.  When did he hit you?"

The wife trembled and hesitated.  The magistrate nodded encouragingly.

"Why weren't you home?" he asked softly.

"My neighbor, Mrs. Goldberg, likes the baby, and she was showing me how
to make some syrup for its croup, your honor, sir.  We haven't got any
light--it's a quarter gas meter, and there wasn't anything to cook
with, and I had the baby in her flat, and Joe he just got home--he
hadn't been there ... since ... Saturday night ...  I didn't have
anything to eat--since then, myself."

Joe whirled about threateningly, but the officer caught his uplifted
arm.

"She lies.  She ain't straight, that's what it is.  Hanging around them
_Sheenies_, and sayin' it's the baby.  She lies!"

The little woman's face paled, and she staggered back, her tremulous
fingers clutching at the empty air as her great eyes opened with horror
at his words.

"I'm not _straight_?  Oh, oh, Joe!  You're killing me!"

She moaned as though the man had beat her again.

"Six months!" rasped out the magistrate between his teeth.  "And I'm
going to put you under a peace bond when you get out.  Little woman,
you're dismissed."

Joe was roughly jostled out into the detention room again by the
rosy-cheeked policeman, whose face was neither so jolly nor rosy now.
The woman sobbed, and leaned across the rail, her outstretched arms
held pleadingly toward the magistrate.

"Oh, judge, sir ... don't send him up for six months.  How can the baby
and I live?  We have no one, not one soul to care for us, and I'm
expecting..."

Mercifully her nerves gave way, and she fainted.  The gruff old court
attendant, now as gentle as a nurse, caught her, and with the gateman,
carried her at the judge's direction, toward his own private office,
whither hurried Mrs. Grey, the matron.

The magistrate blew his nose, rubbed his glasses, and irritably looked
at the next paper.

"Jimmie Olinski.  Officer Burke.  Hurry up, I want to call recess!" he
exclaimed.

Burke, in a daze of thoughts, pulled himself together, and then took
the arm of Jimmie the Monk, who advanced with manner docile and
obsequious.  He was not a stranger to the path to the rail.  Another
officer led Annie forward.  Burke took the chair.

"Don't waste my time," snapped the magistrate.  "What's this?  Another
fight?"

Officer 4434 explained the situation.

"Do you want to complain, woman?" asked the magistrate.

"Complain, why yer honor, dis cop is lyin' like a house afire.  Dis is
me gent' friend, an' I got me face hoit by dis cop hittin' me when he
butted into our conversation.  Dis cop assaulted us both, yer honor."

"That'll do.  Shut up.  You know what this is, don't you, Burke?  The
same old story.  Why do you waste time on this sort of thing unless
you've got a witness?  You know one of these women will never testify
against the man, no matter how much he beats and robs her."

"But, your honor, the man assaulted her and assaulted me," began Burke.

"She doesn't count.  That's the pity of it, poor thing.  I'll hold him
over to General Sessions for a criminal trial on assaulting you."

In the back of the room a stout man in a fur overcoat arose.

It was Shultberger.  He came down the aisle.

As he did so, unnoticed by Officer 4434, three of Shultberger's
companions arose and quietly left the courtroom by the front entrance.

"Oxcuse me, Chudge, but may I offer bail for my friend, little Jimmie?"

He had some papers in his hand, for this was what might be called a
by-product of his saloon business; Shultberger was always ready for the
assistance of his clients.

The magistrate looked sharply at him.  "Down here again, eh?  I'd think
those deeds and that old brick house would be worn out by this time,
Shultberger, from the frequency with which you juggle it against the
liberty of your friends."

"It's a fine house, Chudge, and was assessed."

"Yes--go file your papers," snapped the magistrate.  "You can report
back to your station house, officer.  There is no charge against this
girl--she is merely held as material witness.  She'll never testify.
She's discharged.  Take my advice, Burke, and play safe with these
gun-men.  You're in a neighborhood which needs good precaution as well
as good intentions.  Good night."

The magistrate rose, declaring a recess for one hour, and Officer 4434
left the court through the police entrance.

As he turned the corner of the old Court building, he repeated to
himself the question which had forced itself so strongly upon him: "Who
is to blame?  Who has to pay?  The men or the women?"

Again he saw, mentally, the sobbing, drunken Irish woman with the two
daughters who had no home life.  He saw the brutal Joe, and his
fainting wife as he cast the horrible words "not straight" into her
soul.  He saw that the answer to his question, and the shallow society
youngsters, who had left the courtroom to see "real life" at Rector's,
were not disconnected from that answer.

But he did not see a dark form behind a stone buttress at the corner of
the old building.  He did not see a brick which came hurtling through
the air from behind him.

He merely fell forward, mutely--with a fractured skull!




CHAPTER II

WHEN LOVE COMES VISITING

It was a very weak young man who sojourned for the next few weeks in
the hospital, hovering so near the shadow of the Eternal Fixed Post
that nurses and internes gave him up many times.

"It's only his fine young body, with a fine clean mind and fine living
behind it, that has brought him around, nurse," said Doctor MacFarland,
the police surgeon of Burke's precinct, as he came to make his daily
call.

"He's been very patient, sir, and it's a blessing to see him able to
sit up now, and take an interest in things.  Many a man's mind has been
a blank after such a blow and such a fracture.  He's a great favorite,
here," said the pretty nurse.

Old Doctor MacFarland gave her a comical wink as he answered.

"Well, nurse, beware of these great favorites.  I like him myself, and
every officer on the force who knows him does as well.  But the life of
a policeman's wife is not quite as jolly and rollicking as that of a
grateful patient who happens to be a millionaire.  So, bide your time."

He chuckled and walked on down the hall, while the young woman blushed
a carmine which made her look very pretty as she entered the private
room which had been reserved for Bobbie Burke.

"Is there anything you would like for a change?" she asked.

"Well, I can't read, and I can't take up all your time talking, so I
wish you'd let me get out of this room into one of the wards in a
wheel-chair, nurse," answered Burke.  "I'd like to see some of the
other folks, if it's permissible."

"That's easy.  The doctor said you could sit up more each day now.  He
says you'll be back on duty in another three weeks--or maybe six."

Burke groaned.

"Oh, these doctors, really, I feel as well now as I ever did, except
that my head is just a little wobbly and I don't believe I could beat
Longboat in a Marathon.  But, you see, I'll be back on duty before any
three weeks go by."

Burke was wheeled out into the big free ward of the hospital by one of
the attendants.  He had never realized how much human misery could be
concentrated into one room until that perambulatory trip.

It was not a visiting day, and many of the sufferers tossed about
restless and unhappy.

About some of the beds there were screens--to keep the sight of their
unhappiness and anguish from their neighbors.

Here was a man whose leg had been amputated.  His entire life was
blighted because he had stuck to his job, coupling freight cars, when
the engineer lost his head.

There, on that bed, was an old man who had saved a dozen youngsters
from a burning Christmas tree, and was now paying the penalty with
months of torture.

Yonder poor fellow, braving the odds of the city, had left his country
town, sought labor vainly, until he was found starving rather than beg.

As a policeman, Burke had seen many miseries in his short experience on
the force; as an invalid he had been initiated into the second degree
in this hospital ward.  He wondered if there could be anything more
bitter.  There was--his third and final degree in the ritual of life:
but that comes later on in our story.

After chatting here and there with a sufferer, passing a friendly word
of encouragement, or spinning some droll old yarn to cheer up another,
Bobbie had enough.

"Say, it's warm looking outside.  Could I get some fresh air on one of
the sun-porches?" he asked his steersman.

"Sure thing, cap.  I'll blanket you up a bit, and put you through your
paces on the south porch."

Bobbie was rolled out on the glass protected porch into the blessed
rays of the sun.  He found another traveler using the same mode of
conveyance, an elderly man, whose pallid face, seamed with lines of
suffering, still showed the jolly, unconquerable spirit which keeps
some men young no matter how old they grow.

"Well, it's about the finest sunlight I've seen for many a day.  How do
you like it, young man?"

"It's the first I've had for so many weeks that I didn't believe there
was any left in the world," responded Burke.  "If we could only get out
for a walk instead of this Atlantic City boardwalk business it would be
better, wouldn't it?"

His companion nodded, but his genial smile vanished.

"Yes, but that's something I'll never get again."

"What, never again?  Why, surely you're getting along to have them
bring you out here?"

"No, my boy.  I've a broken hip, and a broken thigh.  Crushed in an
elevator accident, back in the factory, and I'm too old a dog to learn
to do such tricks as flying.  I'll have to content myself with one of
these chairs for the rest of my worthless old years."

The old man sighed, and such a sigh!

Bobbie's heart went out to him, and he tried to cheer him up.

"Well, sir, there could be worse things in life--you are not blind, nor
deaf--you have your hands and they look like hands that can do a lot."

His neighbor looked down at his nervous, delicate hands and smiled, for
his was a valiant spirit.

"Yes, they've done a lot.  They'll do a lot more, for I've been lying
on my back with nothing to do for a month but think up things for them
to do.  I'm a mechanic, you know, and fortunately I have my hands and
my memory, and years of training.  I've been superintendent of a
factory; electrical work, phonographs, and all kinds of instruments
like that were my specialty.  But, they don't want an old man back
there, now.  Too many young bloods with college training and book
knowledge.  I couldn't superintend much work now--this wheel chair of
mine is built for comfort rather than exceeding the speed limit."

Burke drew him out, and learned another pitiful side of life.

Burke's new acquaintance was an artisan of the old school, albeit with
the skill and modernity of a man who keeps himself constantly in the
forefront by youthful thinking and scientific work.  He had devoted the
best years of his life to the interests of his employer.  When a
splendid factory had been completed, largely through the results of his
executive as well as his technical skill, and an enormous fortune
accumulated from the growing business of the famous plant, the
president of the company had died.  His son, fresh from college,
assumed the management of the organization, and the services of old
Barton were little appreciated by the younger man or his board of
directors.  It was a familiar story of modern business life.

"So, there you have it, young man.  Why I should bother you with my
troubles I don't quite understand myself.  In a hospital it's like
shipboard; we know a man a short while, and isolated from the rest of
the world, we are drawn closer than with the acquaintances of years.
In my case it's just the tragedy of age.  There is no man so important
but that a business goes on very well without him.  I realized it with
young Gresham, even before I was hurt in the factory.  They had taken
practically all I had to give, and it was time to cast me aside.  As a
sort of charity, Gresham has sent me four weeks' salary, with a letter
saying that he can do no more, and has appointed a young electrical
engineer, from his own class in Yale, to take my place.  They need an
active man, not an invalid.  My salary has been used up for expenses,
and for the living of my two daughters, Mary and Lorna.  What I'll do
when I get back home, I don't know."

He shook his head, striving to conceal the despondency which was
tugging at his heart.

Burke was cheery as he responded.

"Well, Mr. Barton, you're not out of date yet.  The world of
electricity is getting bigger every day.  You say that you have made
many patents which were given to the Gresham company because you were
their employee.  Now, you can turn out a few more with your own name on
them, and get the profits yourself.  That's not so bad.  I'll be out of
here myself, before long, and I'll stir myself, to see that you get a
chance.  I can perhaps help in some way, even if I'm only a policeman."

The older man looked at him with a comical surprise.

"A policeman?  A cop?  Well, well, well!  I wouldn't have known it!"

Bobbie Burke laughed, and he had a merry laugh that did one's soul good
to hear.

"We're just human beings, you know--even if the ministers and the
muckrakers do accuse us of being blood brothers to the devil and Ali
Baba."

"I never saw a policeman out of uniform before--that's why it seems
funny, I suppose.  But I wouldn't judge you to be the type which I
usually see in the police.  How long have you been in the service?"

Here was Bobby's cue for autobiography, and he realized that, as a
matter of neighborliness, he must go as far as his friend.

"Well, I'm what they call a rookie.  It's my second job as a rookie,
however, for I ran away from home several years ago, and joined the
army.  I believed all the pretty pictures they hang up in barber shops
and country post-offices, and thought I was going to be a globe
trotter.  Do you remember that masterpiece which shows the gallant
bugler tooting the 'Blue Bells of Scotland,' and wearing a straight
front jacket that would make a Paris dressmaker green with envy?  Well,
sir, I believed that poster, and the result was that I went to the
Philippines and helped chase Malays, Filipinos, mosquitoes, and germs;
curried the major's horse, swept his front porch, polished his shoes,
built fences and chicken houses, and all the rest of the things a
soldier does."

"But, why didn't you stay at home?"

Burke dropped his eyes for an instant, and then looked up unhappily.

"I had no real home.  My mother and father died the same year, when I
was eighteen.  I don't know how it all happened.  I had gone to college
out West for one year, when my uncle sent for me to come back to the
town where we lived and get to work.  My father was rather well to do,
and I couldn't quite understand it.  But, my uncle was executor of the
estate, and when I had been away that season it was all done.  There
was no estate when I got back, and there was nothing to do but to work
for my uncle in the store which he said he had bought from my father,
and to live up in the little room on the third floor where the cook
used to sleep, in the house where I was born, which he said he had
bought from the estate.  It was a queer game.  My father left no
records of a lot of things, and so there you know why I ran away to
listen to that picture bugle.  I re-enlisted, and at the end of my
second service I got sick of it.  I was a sergeant and was going to
take the examination for second lieutenant when I got malaria, and I
decided that the States were good enough for me.  The Colonel knew the
Police Commissioner here.  He sent me a rattling good letter.  I never
expected to use it.  But, after I hunted a job for six months and spent
every cent I had, I decided that soldiering was a good training for
sweeping front porches and polishing rifles, but it didn't pay much gas
and rent in the big city.  The soldier is a baby who always takes
orders from dad, and dad is the government.  I decided I'd use what
training I had, so I took that letter to the Commissioner.  I got
through the examinations, and landed on the force.  Then a brick with a
nice sharp corner landed on the back of my head, and I landed up here.
And that's all there is to _my_ tale of woe."

The old man looked at him genially.

"Well, you've had your own hard times, my boy.  None of us finds it all
as pretty as the picture of the bugler, whether we work in a factory, a
skyscraper or on a drill ground.  But, somehow or other, I don't
believe you'll be a policeman so very long."

Bob leaned back in his chair and drank in the invigorating air, as it
whistled in through the open casement of the glass-covered porch.
There was a curious twinkle in his eye, as he replied:

"I'm going to be a policeman long enough to 'get' the gangsters that
'got' me, Mr. Barton.  And I believe I'm going to try a little
housecleaning, or white-wings work around that neighborhood, just as a
matter of sport.  It doesn't hurt to try."

And Burke's jaw closed with a determined click, as he smiled grimly.

Barton was about to speak when the door from the inner ward opened
behind them.

"Father!  Father!" came a fresh young voice, and the old man turned
around in his chair with an exclamation of delight.

"Why, Mary, my child.  I'm so pleased.  How did you get to see me?
It's not a visiting day."

A pretty girl, whose delicate, oval face was half wreathed with waves
of brown curls, leaned over the wheeled chair and kissed the old
gentleman, as she placed some carnations on his lap.

She caught his hand in her own little ones and patted it affectionately.

"You dear daddy.  I asked the superintendent of the hospital to let me
in as a special favor to-day, for to-morrow is the regular visiting
day, and I can't come then--neither can Lorna."

"Why, my dear, where are you going?"

The girl hesitated, as she noticed Burke in the wheel-chair so close at
hand.  By superhuman effort Bobbie was directing his attention to the
distant roofs, counting the chimneys as he endeavored to keep his mind
off a conversation which did not concern him.

"Oh, my dear, excuse me.  Mr. Burke, turn around.  I'd like to have you
meet my daughter, Mary."

Bobbie willingly took the little hand, feeling a strange embarrassment
as he looked up into a pair of melting blue eyes.

"It's a great pleasure," he began, and then could think of nothing more
to say.  Mary hesitated as well, and her father asked eagerly: "Why
can't you girls come here to-morrow, my dear?  By another visiting day
I hope to be back home."

"Father, we have----" she hesitated, and Bobbie understood.

"I'd better be wheeling inside, Mr. Barton, and let you have the visit
out here, where it's so nice.  It's only my first trip, you know--so
let me call my steersman."

"No secrets, no secrets," began Barton, but Bobbie had beckoned to the
ward attendant.  The man came out, and, at Burke's request, started to
wheel him inside.

"Won't you come and visit me, sir, in my little room?  I get lonely,
you know, and have a lot of space.  I'm so glad to have seen you, Miss
Barton."

"Mr. Burke is going to be one of my very good friends, Mary.  He's
coming around to see us when I get back home.  Won't that be pleasant?"

Mary looked at Bobbie's honest, mobile face, and saw the splendid
manliness which radiated from his earnest, friendly eyes.  Perhaps she
saw just a trifle more in those eyes; whatever it was, it was not
displeasing.

She dropped her own gaze, and softly said:

"Yes, father.  He will be very welcome, if he is your friend."

On her bosom was a red rose which the florist had given her when she
purchased the flowers for her father.  Sometimes even florists are
human, you know.

"Good afternoon; I'll see you later," said Bobbie, cheerily.

"You haven't any flowers, Mr. Burke.  May I give you this little one?"
asked Mary, as she unpinned the rose.

Burke flushed.  He smiled, bashfully, and old Barton beamed.

"Thank you," said Bobbie, and the attendant wheeled him on into his own
room.

"Nurse, could you get me a glass of water for this rose?" asked Bobbie.

"Certainly," said the pretty nurse, with a curious glance at the red
blossom.  "It's very pretty.  It's just a bud and, if you keep it
fresh, will last a long time."

She placed it on the table by his cot.

As she left the room, she looked again at the rose.

Sometimes even nurses are human.

And Bobbie looked at the rose.  It was the sweetest rose he had ever
seen.  He hoped that it would last a long, long time.

"I will try to keep it fresh," he murmured, as he awkwardly rolled over
into his bed.

Sometimes even policemen are human, too.




CHAPTER III

THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT

Officer Burke was back again at his work on the force.  He was a trifle
pale, and the hours on patrol duty and fixed post seemed trebly long,
for even his sturdy physique was tardy in recuperating from that
vicious shock at the base of his brain.

"Take it easy, Burke," advised Captain Sawyer, "you have never had a
harder day in uniform than this one.  Those two fires, the work at the
lines with the reserves and your patrol in place of Dexter, who is laid
up with his cold, is going it pretty strong."

"That's all right, Captain.  I'm much obliged for your interest.  But a
little more work to-night won't hurt me.  I'll hurry strength along by
keeping up this hustling.  People who want to stay sick generally
succeed.  Doctor MacFarland is looking after me, so I am not worried."

Bobbie left the house with his comrades to relieve the men on patrol.

It was late afternoon of a balmy spring day.

The weeks since he had been injured had drifted into months, and there
seemed many changes in the little world of the East Side.  This store
had failed; that artisan had moved out, and even two or three fruit
dealers whom Bobbie patronized had disappeared.

In the same place stood other stands, managed by Italians who looked
like caricatures drawn by the same artist who limned their predecessors.

"It must be pretty hard for even the Italian Squad to tell all these
fellows apart, Tom," said Bobbie, as they stood on the corner by one of
the stalls.

"Sure, lad.  All Ginnies look alike to me.  Maybe that's why they carve
each other up every now and then at them little shindigs of theirs.
Little family rows, they are, you know.  I guess they add a few marks
of identification, just for the family records," replied Tom Dolan, an
old man on the precinct.  "However, I get along with 'em all right by
keeping my eye out for trouble and never letting any of 'em get me
first.  They're all right, as long as you smile at 'em.  But they're
tricky, tricky.  And when you hurt a <DW77>'s vanity it's time to get a
half-nelson on your night-stick!"

They separated, Dolan starting down the garbage-strewn side street to
chase a few noisy push-cart merchants who, having no other customers in
view, had congregated to barter over their respective wares.

"Beat it, you!" ordered Dolan.  "This ain't no Chamber of Commerce.
Git!"

With muttered imprecation the peddlers pushed on their carts to make
place for a noisy, tuneless hurdy-gurdy.  On the pavement at its side a
dozen children congregated--none over ten--to dance the turkey trot and
the "<DW65>," according to the most approved Bowery artistry of
"spieling."

"Lord, no wonder they fall into the gutter when they grow up," thought
Bobbie.  "They're sitting in it from the time they get out of their
swaddling rags."

Bobbie walked up to the nearby fruit merchant.

"How much is this apple, Tony?"

The Italian looked at him warily, and then smirked.

"Eet's nothing toa you, signor.  I'ma da policeman's friend.  You taka
him."

Bobbie laughed, as he fished out a nickel from his pocket.  He shook
his head, as he replied.

"No, Tony, I don't get my apples from the 'policeman's friend.'  I can
pay for them.  You know all of us policemen aren't grafters--even on
the line of apples and peanuts."

The Italian's eyes grew big.

"Well, you'ra de first one dat offer to maka me de pay, justa de same.
Eet's a two centa, eef you insist."

He gave Bobbie his change, and the young man munched away on the fresh
fruit with relish.  The Italian gave him a sunny grin, and then
volunteered:

"Youa de new policeman, eh?"

"I have been in the hospital for more than a month, so that's why you
haven't seen me.  How long have you been on this corner?  There was
another man here when I came this way last."

"Si, signor.  That my cousin Beppo.  But he's gone back to It'.  He had
some money--he wanta to keep eet, so he go while he can."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don'ta wanta talk about eet, signor," said the Italian, with a
strange look.  "Eet'sa bad to say I was his cousin even."

The dealer looked worried, and naturally Bobbie became curious and more
insistent.

"You can tell me, if it's some trouble.  Maybe I can help you some time
if you're afraid of any one."

The Italian shook his head, pessimistically.

"No, signor.  Eet'sa better I keep what you call de mum."

"Did he blow up somebody with a bomb?  Or was it stiletto work?" asked
Bobbie, as he threw away the core of the apple, to observe it greedily
captured by a small, dirty-faced urchin by the curb.

The fruit merchant looked into Officer Burke's face, and, as others had
done, was inspired by its honesty and candor.  He felt that here might
be a friend in time of trouble.  Most of the policemen he knew were
austere and cynical.  He leaned toward Burke and spoke in a subdued
tone.

"Poor Beppo, he have de broken heart.  He was no Black Hand--he woulda
no usa de stiletto on a cheecken, he so kinda, gooda man.  He justa
leave disa country to keepa from de suicide."

"Why, that's strange!  Tell me about it.  Poor fellow!"

"He'sa engag-ed to marry de pretty Maria Cenini, de prettiest girl in
our village, back in It'--excepta my wife.  Beppo, he senda on de
money, so she can coma dis country and marry him.  Dat wasa four week
ago she shoulda be here.  But, signor, whena Beppo go toa de Battery to
meet her froma da Ellis Island bigga boat he no finda her."

"Did she die?"

"Oh, signor, Beppo, he wisha she hadda died.  He tooka de early boat to
meeta her, signor, and soma ona tella de big officier at de Battery
he'sa da cousin of her sweeta heart.  She goa wid him, signor, and
Beppo never finda her."

"Why, you don't mean the girl was abducted?"

"Signor, whatever eet was, Beppo hear from one man from our village who
leeve in our village dat he see poor Maria weed her face all paint, and
locked up in de tougha house in Newark two weeks ago.  Oh, _madre dio_,
signor, she's a da bad girl!  Beppo, he nearly killa his friend for
tell him, and den he go to Newark to looka for her at de house.  But
she gone, and poor Beppo he was de pinched for starting de fight in de
house.  He pay twanty-five de dols, and coma back here.  De nexta
morning a beeg man come to Beppo, and he say: '<DW77>, you geet out dis
place, eef you tella de police about dees girl,' Dassal."

Burke looked into the nervous, twitching face of the poor Italian, and
realized that here was a deeper tragedy than might be guessed by a
passerby.  The man's eyes were wet, and he convulsively fumbled at the
corduroy coat, which he had doubtless worn long before he ever sought
the portals of the Land of Liberty.

"Oh, signor.  Data night Beppo he was talk to de policaman, justa like
me.  He say no word, but dat beega man he musta watch, for desa
gang-men dey busta de stand, and dey tella Beppo to geet out or dey
busta heem.  Beppo he tell me I can hava de stand eef I pay him some
eacha week.  I take it--and now I am afraid de busta me!"

Bobbie laid a comforting hand upon the man's heaving shoulder.

"There, don't you worry.  Don't tell anyone else you're his cousin, and
I won't either.  You don't need to be afraid of these gang-men.  Just
be careful and yell for the police.  The trouble with you Italians is
that you are afraid to tell the police anything when you are treated
badly.  Your cousin should have reported this case to the Ellis Island
authorities.  They would have traced that girl and saved her."

The man looked gratefully into Burke's eyes, as the tears ran down his
face.

"Oh, signor, eef all de police were lika you we be not afraid."

Just then he dropped his eyes, and Burke noticed that his hand trembled
as he suddenly reached for a big orange and held it up.  The man spoke
with a surprising constraint, still holding his look upon the fruit.

"Signor, here's a fine orange.  You wanta buy heem?"  In a whisper he
added: "Eet is de bigga man who told my cousin to get outa da country!"

Bobbie in astonishment turned around and beheld two pedestrians who
were walking slowly past, both staring curiously at the Italian.

He gave an exclamation of surprise as he noticed that one of the men
was no less a personage than Jimmie the Monk.  The man with him was a
big, raw-boned Bowery character of pugilistic build.

"Why, I thought that scoundrel would have been tried and sentenced by
this time," murmured the officer.  "I know they told me his case had
been postponed by his lawyer, an alderman.  But this is one on me."

The smaller man caught Burke's eye and gave him an insolent laugh.  He
even stopped and muttered something to his companion.

Burke's blood was up in an instant.

He advanced quickly toward the tough.  Jimmie sneered, as he stood his
ground, confident in the security of his political protection.

"Move on there," snapped Burke.  "This is no loafing place."

"Aaaah, go chase sparrers," snarled Jimmie the Monk.  "Who ye think yer
talking to, rookie?"

Now, Officer Burke was a peaceful soul, despite his military training.
His short record on the force had been noteworthy for his ability to
disperse several incipient riots, quiet more than one brawl, and tame
several bad men without resorting to rough work.  But there was a
rankling in his spirit which overcame the geniality which had been
reigning in his heart so short a time before.

He was tired.  He was weak from his recent confinement.  But the
fighting blood of English and some Irish ancestors stirred in his veins.

He walked quietly up to the Monk, and his voice was low, his words
calm, as he remarked: "You clear out of this neighborhood.  I am going
to put you where you belong the first chance I get.  And I don't want
any of your impudence now.  Move along."

Jimmie mistook the quiet manner for respect and a timid memory of the
recent retirement from active service.

He spread his legs, and, with a wink to his companion, he began, with
the strident rasp of tone which can seldom be heard above Fourteenth
Street and east of Third Avenue.

"Say, bo.  Do you recollect gittin' a little present?  Well, listen,
dere's a Christmas tree of dem presents comin' to you ef ye tries any
more of dis stuff.  I'm in _right_ in dis district, don't fergit it.
Ye tink's I'm going to de Island?  Wipe dat off yer memory, too.  W'y,
say, I kin git yer buttons torn off and yer shield put in de scrap heap
by de Commish if I says de woid down on Fourteenth Street, at de
bailiwick."

"I know who was back of the assault on me, Monk, and let me tell you
I'm going to get the man who threw it.  Now, you get!"

Burke raised his right hand carelessly to the side of his collar, as he
pressed up close to the gangster.  The big man at his side came nearer,
but as the policeman did not raise his club, which swung idly by its
leather thong, to his left wrist, he was as unprepared for what
happened as Jimmie.

"Why you----" began the latter, with at least six ornate oaths which
out-tarred the vocabulary of any jolly, profane tar who ever swore.

Burke's hand, close to his own shoulder, and not eight inches away from
Jimmie's leering jowl, closed into a very hard fist.  Before the tough
knew what had hit him that nearby fist had sent him reeling into the
gutter from a short shoulder jab, which had behind it every ounce of
weight in the policeman's swinging body.

Jimmie lay there.

The other man's hand shot to his hip pocket, but the officer's own
revolver was out before he could raise the hand again.  Army practice
came handy to Burke in this juncture.

"Keep your hand where it is," exclaimed the policeman, "or you'll get a
bullet through it."

"You dog, I'll get you sent up for this," muttered the big man.

But with his revolver covering the fellow, Burke quickly "frisked" the
hip pocket and discovered the bulk of a weapon.  This was enough.

"I fixed the Monk.  Now, you're going up for the Sullivan Law against
carrying firearms.  You're number one, with me, in settling up this
score!"  Jimmie had shown signs of awakening from the slumber induced
by Burke's sturdy right hand.

He pulled himself up as Burke marched his man around the corner.  The
Monk hurried, somewhat unsteadily, to the edge of the fruit stand and
looked round it after the two figures.

"Do youse know dat cop, ye damn Ginnie?" muttered Jimmie.

"Signor, no!" replied the fruit dealer, nervously.  "I never saw heem
on dis beat before to-day, wenna he buy de apple from me."

Jimmie turned--discretion conquering temporary vengeance, and started
in the opposite direction.  He stopped long enough to say, as he rubbed
his bruised jaw, "Well, <DW77>, ye ain't like to see much more of 'im
around dis dump neither, an' ye ain't likely to see yerself neither, if
ye do too much talkin' wid de cops."

Jimmie hurried up the street to a certain rendezvous to arrange for a
rescue party of some sort.  In the meantime Officer 4434 led an
unwilling prisoner to the station house, one hand upon the man's right
arm.  His own right hand gripped his stick firmly.

"You make a wiggle and I'm going to give it to you where I got that
brick, only harder," said Burke, softly.

A crowd of urchins, young men and even a few straggling women followed
him with his prisoner.  It grew to enormous proportions by the time he
had reached the station house.

As they entered the front room Captain Sawyer looked up from his desk,
where he had been checking up some reports.

"Ah, what have we this time, Burke?"

"This man is carrying a revolver in his hip pocket," declared the
officer.  "That will take care of him, I suppose."

Dexter, at the captain's direction, searched the man.  The revolver was
the first prize.  In his pocket was a queer memorandum book.  It
contained page after page of girls' names, giving only the first name,
with some curious words in cipher code after each one.  In the same
pocket was a long, flat parcel.  Dexter handed it to the captain who
opened it gingerly.  Inside the officer found at least twenty-five
small packets, all wrapped in white paper.  He opened two of these.
They contained a flaky, white powder.

The man looked down as Sawyer gave him a shrewd glance.

"We have a very interesting visitor, Burke.  Thanks for bringing him
in.  So you're a cocaine peddler?"

The man did not reply.

"Take him out into one of the cells, Dexter.  Get all the rest of his
junk and wrap it up.  Look through the lining of his clothes and strip
him.  This is a good catch, Burke."

The prisoner sullenly ambled along between two policemen, who locked
him up in one of the "pens" in the rear of the front office.  Burke
leaned over the desk.

"He was walking with that Jimmie the Monk when I got him.  Jimmie acted
ugly, and when I told him to move on he began to curse me."

"What did you do?"

"I handed him an upper-cut.  Then this fellow tried to get his gun.
Jimmie will remember me, and I'll get him later, on something.  I
didn't want to call out the reserves, so I brought this man right on
over here, and let Jimmie attend to himself.  I suppose we'll hear from
him before long."

"Yes, I see the message coming now," exclaimed Captain Sawyer in a low
tone.  "Don't you open your mouth.  I'll do the talking now."

As he spoke, Burke followed his eyes and turned around.  A large man,
decorated with a shiny silk hat, shinier patent leather shoes of
extreme breadth of beam, a flamboyant waistcoat, and a gold chain from
which dangled a large diamond charm, swaggered into the room, mopping
his red face with a silk handkerchief.

"Well, well, captain!" he ejaculated, "what's this I hear about an
officer from this precinct assaulting two peaceful civilians?"

The Captain looked steadily into the puffy face of the speaker.  His
steely gray eyes fairly snapped with anger, although his voice was
unruffled as he replied, "You'd better tell me all you heard, and who
you heard it from."

The big man looked at Burke and scowled ominously.  It was evident that
Officer 4434 was well known to him, although Bobbie had never seen the
other in his life.

"Here's the fellow.  Clubbing one of my district workers--straight
politics, that's what it is, or I should say crooked politics.  I'm
going to take this up with the Mayor this very day.  You know his
orders about policemen using their clubs."

"Yes, Alderman, I know that and several other things.  I know that this
policeman did not use his club but his fist on one of your ward
heelers, and that was for cursing him in public.  He should have
arrested him.  I also know that you are the lawyer for this gangster,
Jimmie the Monk.  And I know what we have on his friend.  You can look
at the blotter if you want.  I haven't finished writing it all yet."

The Captain turned the big record-book around on his desk, while the
politician angrily examined it.

"What's that?  Carrying weapons, unlawfully?  Carrying cocaine?  Why,
this is a frame-up.  This man Morgan is a law-abiding citizen.  You're
trying to send him up to make a record for yourself.  I'm going to take
this up with the Mayor as sure as my name is Kelly!"

"Take it up with the United States District Attorney, too, Mr.
Alderman, for I've got some other things on your man Morgan.  This
political stuff is beginning to wear out," snapped Sawyer.  "There are
too many big citizens getting interested in this dope trade and in the
gang work for you and your Boss to keep it hushed any longer."

He turned to Burke and waved his hand toward the stairway which led to
the dormitory above.

"Go on upstairs, my boy, and rest up a little bit.  You're pale.  This
has been a hard day, and I'm going to send out White to relieve you.
Take a little rest and then I'll send you up to Men's Night Court with
Morgan, for I want him held over for investigation by the United States
officers."

Alderman Kelly puffed and fumed with excitement.  This was getting
beyond his depths.  He was a competent artist in the criminal and lower
courts, but his talents for delaying the law of the Federal procedure
were rather slim.

"What do you mean?  I'm going to represent Morgan, and I'll have
something to say about his case at Night Court.  I know the magistrate."

Sawyer took out the memorandum book from the little parcel of
"exhibits" removed from the prisoner.

"Well, Alderman," Burke heard him say, as he started up the stairs,
"you ought to be pleased to have a long and profitable case.  For I
think this is just starting the trail on a round-up of some young men
who have been making money by a little illegal traffic.  There are
about four hundred girls' names in this book, and the Chief of
Detectives has a reputation for being able to figure out ciphers."

Alderman Kelly dropped his head, but gazed at Sawyer's grim face from
beneath his heavy brows with a baleful intensity.  Then he left the
station house.




CHAPTER IV

WHAT THE DOCTOR SAID

Officer Bobbie Burke found the case at the Men's Night Court to be less
difficult than his experience with Dutch Annie and her "friend."  The
magistrate disregarded the pleading of Alderman Kelly to show the
"law-abiding" Morgan any leniency.  The man was quickly bound over for
investigation by the Grand Jury, upon the representations of Captain
Sawyer, who went in person to look after the matter.

"This man will bear a strict investigation, Mr. Kelly, and I propose to
hold him without bail until the session to-morrow.  Your arguments are
of no avail.  We have had too much talk and too little actual results
on this trafficking and cocaine business, and I will do what I can to
prevent further delays."

"But, your honor, how about this brutal policeman?" began Kelly, on a
new tack.  "Assaulting a peaceful citizen is a serious matter, and I am
prepared to bring charges."

"Bring any you want," curtly said the magistrate.  "The officer was
fully justified.  If night-sticks instead of political pull were used
on these gun-men our politics would be cleaner and our city would not
be the laughing-stock of the rest of the country.  Officer Burke, keep
up your good work, and clean out the district if you can.  We need more
of it."

Burke stepped down from the stand, embarrassed but happy, for it was a
satisfaction to know that there were some defenders of the police.  He
espied Jimmie the Monk sitting with some of his associates in the rear
of the room, but this time he was prepared for trouble, as he left.
Consequently, there was none.

When he returned to the station house he was too tired to return to his
room in the boarding-house where he lodged, but took advantage of the
proximity of a cot in the dormitory for the reserves.

Next day he was so white and fagged from the hard duty that Captain
Sawyer called up Doctor MacFarland, the police surgeon for the precinct.

When the old Scotchman came over he examined.  Burke carefully and
shook his head sternly.

"Young man," said he, "if you want to continue on this work, remember
that you have just come back from a hospital.  There has been a bad
shock to your nerves, and if you overdo yourself you will have some
trouble with that head again.  You had better ask the Captain for a
little time off--take it easy this next day or two and don't pick any
more fights."

"I'm not hunting for trouble, doctor.  But, you know, I do get a queer
feeling--maybe it is in my head, from that brick, but it feels in my
heart--whenever I see one of these low scoundrels who live on the
misery of their women.  This Jimmie the Monk is one of the worst I have
ever met, and I can't rest easy until I see him landed behind the bars."

"There is no greater curse to our modern civilization than the work of
these men, Burke.  It is not so much the terrible lives of the women
whom they enslave; it is the disease which is scattered broadcast, and
carried into the homes of working-men, to be handed to virtuous and
unsuspecting wives, and by heredity to innocent children, visiting, as
the Bible says, 'the iniquities of the fathers unto the third and the
fourth generation.'"

The old doctor sat down dejectedly and rested his chin on his hand, as
he sat talking to Burke in the rear room of the station house.

"Doctor, I've heard a great deal about the white slave traffic, as
every one who keeps his ears open in the big city must.  Do you think
the reports are exaggerated?"

"No, my boy.  I've been practicing medicine and surgery in New York for
forty years.  When I came over here from Scotland the city was no
better than it should have been.  But it was an _American_ city
then--not an 'international melting pot,' as the parlor sociologists
proudly call it.  The social evil is the oldest profession in the
world; it began when one primitive man wanted that which he could not
win with love, so he offered a bribe.  And the bribe was taken, whether
it was a carved amulet or a morsel of game, or a new fashion in furs.
And the woman who took it realized that she could escape the drudgery
of the other women, could obtain more bribes for her loveless barter
... and so it has grown down through the ages."

The old Scotchman lit his pipe.

"I've read hundreds of medical books, and I've had thousands of cases
in real life which have taught me more than my medical books.  What
I've learned has not made me any happier, either.  Knowledge doesn't
bring you peace of mind on a subject like this.  It shows you how much
greed and wickedness and misery there are in the world."

"But, doctor, do you think this white slave traffic is a new
development?  We've only heard about it for the last two or three
years, haven't we?"

The physician nodded.

"Yes, but it's been there in one form or another.  It caused the ruin
of the Roman Empire; it brought the downfall of mediaeval Europe, and
whenever a splendid civilization springs up the curse of sex-bondage in
one form or another grows with it like a cancer."

"But medicine is learning to cure the cancer.  Can't it help cure this?"

"We are getting near the cure for cancer, maybe near the cure for this
cancer as well.  Sex-bondage was the great curse of <DW64> slavery in
the United States; it was the thing which brought misery on the South,
in the carpet-bag days, as a retribution for the sins of the fathers.
We cured that and the South is bigger and better for that terrible
surgical operation than it ever was before.  But this latest
development--organized capture of ignorant, weak, pretty girls, to be
held in slavery by one man or by a band of men and a few debauched old
hags, is comparatively a new thing in America.  It has been caused by
the swarms of ignorant emigrants, by the demand of the lowest classes
of those emigrants and the Americans they influence for a satisfaction
of their lust.  It is made easy by the crass ignorance of the country
girls, the emigrant girls, and by the drudgery and misery of the
working girls in the big cities."

"I saw two cases in Night Court, Doc, which explained a whole lot to
me--drunken fathers and brutal husbands who poisoned their own
wives--it taught that not all the blame rests upon the weakness of the
women."

"Of course it doesn't," exclaimed MacFarland impetuously.  "It rests
upon Nature, and the way our boasted Society is mistreating Nature.
Woman is weaker than man when it comes to brute force; you know it is
force which does rule the world when you do get down to it, in
government, in property, in business, in education--it is all survival
of the strongest, not always of the fittest.  A woman should be in the
home; she can raise babies, for which Nature intended her.  She can
rule the world through her children, but when she gets out to fight
hand to hand with man in the work-world she is outclassed.  She can't
stand the physical strain thirty days in the month; she can't stand the
starvation, the mistreatment, the battling that a man gets in the
world.  She needs tenderness and care, for you know every normal woman
is a mother-to-be--and that is the most wonderful thing in the world,
the most beautiful.  When the woman comes up against the stone wall of
competition with men her weakness asserts itself.  That's why good
women fall.  It's not the 'easiest way'--it's just forced upon them.
As for the naturally bad women--well, that has come from some trait of
another generation, some weakness which has been increased instead of
cured by all this twisted, tangled thing we call modern civilization."

The doctor sighed.

"There are a lot of women in the world right now, Burke, who are
fighting for what they call the 'Feminist Movement'.  They don't want
homes; they want men's jobs.  They don't want to raise their babies in
the old-fashioned way; they want the State to raise them with trained
nurses and breakfast food.  They don't see anything beautiful in home
life, and cooking, and loving their husbands.  They want the lecture
platform (and the gate-receipts); they want to run the government, they
want men to be breeders, like the drones in the beehive, and they don't
want to be tied to one man for life.  They want to visit around.  The
worst of it is that they are clever, they write well, they talk well,
and they interest the women who are really normal, who only half-read,
only half-analyze, and only get a part of the idea!  These normal women
are devoting, as they should, most of their energies to the normal
things of woman life--children, home, charity, and neighborliness.  But
the clever feminist revolutionists are giving them just enough argument
to make them dissatisfied.  They flatter the domestic woman by telling
her she is not enough appreciated, and that she should control the
country.  They lead the younger women away from the old ideals of love
and home and religion; in their place they would substitute
selfishness, loose morals, and will change the chivalry, which it has
taken men a thousand years to cultivate, into brutal methods, when men
realize that women want absolute equality.  Then, should such a
condition ever be accepted by society in general, we will do away with
the present kind of social evil--to have a tidal wave of lust."

Bobbie listened with interest.  It was evident that Doctor MacFarland
was opening up a subject close to his heart.  The old man's eyes
sparkled as he continued.

"You asked about the traffic in women, as we hear of it in New York.
Well, the only way we can cure it is to educate the men of all classes
so that for reasons moral, sanitary, and feelings of honest pride in
themselves they will not patronize the market where souls are sought.
This can't be done by passing laws, but by better books, better ways of
amusement, better living conditions for working people, so that they
will not be 'driven to drink' and what follows it to forget their
troubles.  Better factories and kinder treatment to the great number of
workmen, with fairer wage scale would bring nearer the possibility of
marriage--which takes not one, but two people out of the danger of the
gutter.  Minimum wage scales and protection of working women would make
the condition of their lives better, so that they would not be forced
into the streets and brothels to make their livings.

"Why, Burke, a magistrate who sits in Night Court has told me that
medical investigation of the street-walkers he has sentenced revealed
the fact that nine of every ten were diseased.  When the men who
foolishly think they are good 'sports' by debauching with these women
learn that they are throwing away the health of their wives and
children to come, as well as risking the contagion of diseases which
can only be bottled up by medical treatment but never completely cured;
when it gets down to the question of men buying and selling these poor
women as they undoubtedly do, the only way to check that is for every
decent man in the country to help in the fight.  It is a man evil; men
must slay it.  Every procurer in the country should be sent to prison,
and every house of ill fame should be closed."

"Don't you think the traffic would go on just the same, doctor?  I have
heard it said that in European cities the authorities confined such
women to certain parts of the city.  Then they are subjected to medical
examination as well."

"No, Burke, segregation will not cure it.  Many of the cities abroad
have given that up.  The medical examinations are no true test, for
they are only partially carried out--not all the women will admit their
sinful ways of life, nor submit to control by the government.  The
system prevails in Paris and in Germany, and there is more disease
there than in any other part of Europe.  Men, depending upon the
imaginary security of a doctor's examination card, abandon themselves
the more readily, and caution is thrown to the winds, with the result
that a woman who has been O.K.'d by a government physician one day may
contract a disease and spread it the very next day.  You can depend
upon it that if she has done so she will evade the examination next
time in order not to interfere with her trade profits.  So, there you
are.  This is an ugly theme, but we must treat it scientifically.

"You know it used to be considered vulgar to talk about the stomach and
other organs which God gave us for the maintenance of life.  But when
folks began to realize that two-thirds of the sickness in the world,
contagious and otherwise, resulted from trouble with the stomach, that
false modesty had to give way.  Consequently to-day we have fewer
epidemics, much better general health, because men and women understand
how to cure many of their own ailments with prompt action and simple
methods.

"The vice problem is one which reaps its richest harvest when it is
protected from the sunlight.  Sewers are not pleasant table-talk, but
they must be watched and attended by scientific sanitary engineers.  A
cancer of the intestines is disagreeable to think about.  But when it
threatens a patient's life the patient should know the truth and the
doctor should operate.  Modern society is the patient, and
death-dealing sex crimes are the cancerous growth, which must be
operated upon.  Whenever we allow a neighborhood to maintain houses of
prostitution, thus regulating and in a way sanctioning the evil, we are
granting a sort of corporation charter for an industry which is run
upon business methods.  And business, you know, is based upon filling
the 'demand,' with the necessary 'supply.'  And the manufacturers, in
this case, are the procurers and the proprietresses of these houses.
There comes in the business of recruiting--and hence the traffic in
souls, as it has aptly been called.  No, my boy, government regulation
will never serve man, nor woman, for it cannot cover all the ground.
As long as women are reckless, lazy and greedy, yielding to temporary,
half-pleasant sin rather than live by work, you will find men with low
ideals in all ranks of life who prefer such illicit 'fun' to the
sweetness of wedlock!  Why, Burke, sex is the most beautiful thing in
the world--it puts the blossoms on the trees, it colors the
butterflies' wings, it sweetens the songs of the birds, and it should
make life worth living for the worker in the trench, the factory hand,
the office toiler and the millionaire.  But it will never do so until
people understand it, know how to guard it with decent knowledge, and
sanctify it morally and hygienically."

The old doctor rose and knocked the ashes out of his briar pipe.  He
looked at the eager face of the young officer.

"But there, I'm getting old, for I yield to the melody of my own voice
too much.  I've got office hours, you know, and I'd better get back to
my pillboxes.  Just excuse an old man who is too talkative sometimes,
but remember that what I've said to you is not my own old-fashioned
notion, but a little boiled-down philosophy from the writings of the
greatest modern scientists."

"Good-bye, Doctor MacFarland.  I'll not forget it.  It has answered a
lot of questions in my mind."

Bobbie went to the front door of the station house with the old
gentleman, and saluted as a farewell.

"What's he been chinning to you about, Burke?" queried the Captain.
"Some of his ideas of reforming the world?  He's a great old character,
is Doc."

"I think he knows a lot more about religion than a good many ministers
I've heard," replied Bobbie.  "He ought to talk to a few of them."

"Sure.  But they wouldn't listen if he did.  They're too busy getting
money to send to the heathens in China, and the <DW65>s in Africa to
bother about the heathens and poor devils here.  I'm pretty strong for
Doc MacFarland, even though I don't get all he's talking about."

"Say, Burke, the Doc got after me one day and gave me a string of books
as long as your arm to read," put in Dexter.  "He seems to think a cop
ought to have as much time to read as a college boy!"

"You let me have the list, Dexter, and I'll coach you up on it,"
laughed Burke.

"To-day is your relief, Burke," said the Captain.  "You can go up to
the library and wallow in literature if you want to."

Burke smiled, as he retorted:

"I'm going to a better place to do my reading--and not out of books
either, Cap."

He changed his clothes, and soon emerged in civilian garb.  He had
never paid his call on John Barton, although he had been out of the
hospital for several days.  The old man's frequent visits to him in his
private room at the hospital, after that first memorable meeting, had
ripened their friendship.  Barton had told him of a number of new ideas
in electrical appliances, and Burke was anxious to see what progress
had been made since the old fellow returned to his home.

Officer 4434 was also anxious to see another member of his family, and
so it was with a curious little thrill of excitement, well concealed,
however, with which he entered the modest apartment of the Bartons'
that evening.

"Well, well, well!" exclaimed the old man, as the young officer took
his hand.  "We thought you had forgotten us completely.  Mary has asked
me several times if you had been up to see me.  I suppose you have been
busy with those gangsters, and keep pretty close since you returned to
active service."

Bobbie nodded.

"Yes, sir.  They are always with us, you know.  And a policeman does
not have very much time to himself, particularly if he lolls around in
bed with a throb in the back of the head, during his off hours, as I've
been foolish enough to do."

"Oh, how are you feeling, Mr. Burke?" exclaimed Mary, as she entered
from the rear room.

She held out her hand, and Bobbie trembled a trifle as he took her
soft, warm fingers in his own.

"I'm improving, and don't believe I was ever laid up--it was just
imagination on my part," answered Burke.  "But I have a faded rose to
make me remember that some of it was a pleasant imagination, at any
rate."

Mary laughed softly, and dropped her eyes ever so slightly.  But the
action betrayed that she had not forgotten either.

Old Barton busied himself with some papers on a table by the side of
his wheel-chair, for he was a diplomat.

"Well, now, Mr. Burke--what are your adventures?  I read every day of
some policeman jumping off a dock in the East River to rescue a
suicide, or dragging twenty people out of a burning tenement, and am
afraid that it's you.  It's all right to be a hero, you know, but
there's a great deal of truth in that old saying about it being better
to have people remark, 'There he goes,' than 'Doesn't he look natural.'"

Bobbie took the comfortable armchair which Mary drew up.

"I haven't had anything really worth while telling about," said Burke.
"I see a lot of sad things, and it makes a man feel as though he were a
poor thing not to be able to improve conditions."

"That's true of every walk in life.  But most people don't look at the
sad any longer than they can help.  I've not been having a very jolly
time of it myself, but I hope for a lot of good news before long.  Why
don't you bring Lorna in to meet Mr. Burke, Mary?"

The girl excused herself, and retired.

"How are your patents?" asked Bobbie, with interest.  "I hope you can
show tricks to the Gresham people."

The old man sighed.  He took up some drawings and opened a little
drawer in the table.

"No, Mr. Burke, I am afraid my tricks will be slow.  I have received no
letter from young Gresham in reply to one I wrote him, asking to be
given a salary for mechanical work here in my home.  Every bit of my
savings has been exhausted.  You know I educated my daughters to the
limit of my earnings, since my dear wife died.  They have hard sledding
in front of them for a while, I fear."

He hesitated, and then continued:

"Do you remember the day you met Mary?  She started to say that she and
Lorna could not see me on visiting day.  Well, the dear girls had
secured a position as clerks in Monnarde's big candy store up on Fifth
Avenue.  They talked it over between them, and decided that it was
better for them to get to work, to relieve my mind of worry.  It's the
first time they ever worked, and they are sticking to it gamely.  But
it makes me feel terribly.  Their mother never had to work, and I feel
as though I have been a failure in life--to have done as much as I
have, and yet not have enough in my old age to protect them from the
world."

"There, there, Mr. Barton.  I don't agree with you.  There is no
disgrace in womanly work; it proves what a girl is worth.  She learns
the value of money, which before that had merely come to her without a
question from her parents.  And you have been a splendid father ...
that's easily seen from the fine sort of girl Miss Mary is."

Mary had stepped into the room with her younger sister as he spoke.
They hesitated at the kindly words, and Mary drew her sister back
again, her face suffused with a rosiness which was far from unhappy in
its meaning.

"Well, I am very proud of Mary and Lorna.  If this particular scheme
works out they will be able to buy their candy at Monnarde's instead of
selling it."

Bobbie rose and leaned over the table.

"What is it?  I'm not very good at getting mechanical drawings.  It
looks as though it ought to be very important from all the wheels," he
said, with a smile of interest.

Spreading out the largest of his drawings, old Barton pointed out the
different lines.

"This may look like a mince pie of cogs here, but when it is put into
shape it will be a simple little arrangement.  This is a recording
instrument which combines the phonograph and the dictagraph.  One
purpose--the most practical, is that a business man may dictate his
letters and memoranda while sitting at his desk, in his office, instead
of having a machine with a phonograph in his private office taking up
space and requiring the changing of records by the dictator--which is
necessary with the present business phonograph.  All that will be
necessary is for him to speak into a little disc.  The sound waves are
carried by a simple arrangement of wiring into his outer office, or
wherever his stenographer works.  There, where the space is presumably
cheaper and easier of access than the private office, the receiving end
of the machine is located.  Instead of one disc at a time--limited to a
certain number of letters--the machine has a magazine of discs,
something like the idea of a repeating letter.  Automatically the disc,
which is filled, is moved up and a fresh disc takes its place.  This
goes on indefinitely, as you might say.  A man can dictate two hundred
letters, speaking as rapidly as he thinks.  He never has to bother over
changing his records.  The girl at the other end of the wire does that
when the machine registers that the supply is being exhausted.  She in
turn uses the discs on the regular business phonograph, or, as this is
intended for large offices, where there are a great many letters, and
consequently a number of stenographers, she can assign the records to
the different typists."

"Why, that is wonderful, Mr. Barton!" exclaimed Burke.  "It ought to
make a fortune for you if it is backed and financed right.  Why didn't
anyone think of it before?"

Barton smiled, and caressed his drawing affectionately.

"Mr. Burke, the Patent Office is maintained for men who think up things
that some fellow should have thought of before!  The greatest
inventions are apparently the simplest.  That's what makes them hard to
invent!"

He pointed to another drawing.

"That has a business value, too, and I hope to get the proper support
when I have completed my models.  You know, a scientific man can see
all these things on the paper, but to the man with money they are pipe
dreams until he sees the wheels go 'round."

He now held out his second drawing, which was easier to understand, for
it was a sketch of his appliance, showing the outer appearance, and
giving a diagonal section of a desk or room, with a wire running
through a wall into another compartment.

"Here is where the scientist yields to his temperament and wastes a lot
of time on something which probably will never bring him a cent.  This
is a combination of my record machine, which will be of interest to
your profession."

Bobbie examined it closely, but could not divine its purpose.

"It is the application of the phonographic record to the dictagraph, so
that police and detective work can be absolutely recorded, without the
shadow of a doubt remaining in the minds of a trial jury or judge.
Maybe this is boring you?"

"No, no--go on!"

"Well, when dictagraphs are used for the discovery of criminals it has
been necessary to keep expert stenographers, and at least one other
witness at the end of the wire to put down the record.  Frequently the
stenographer cannot take the words spoken as fast as he should to make
the record.  Sometimes it is impossible to get the stenographer and the
witness on the wire at the exact time.  Of course, this is only a crazy
idea.  But it seems to me that by a little additional appliance which I
have planned, the record machine could be put into a room nearby, or
even another house.  If a certain place were under suspicion the
machine could rest with more ease, less food and on smaller wages than
a detective and stenographer on salary.  When any one started to talk
in this suspected room the vibrations of the voices would start a
certain connection going through this additional wire, which would set
the phonograph into action.  As long as the conversation continued the
records would be running continuously.  No matter how rapidly words are
uttered the phonograph would get them, and could be run, for further
investigation, as slowly and as many times as desired.  When the
conversation stopped the machine would automatically blow its own
dinner whistle and adjourn the meeting until the talk began again.
This would take the record of at least an hour's conversation: another
attachment would send in a still-alarm to the detective agency or
police station, so that within that hour a man could be on the job with
a new supply of records and bait the trap again."

"Wonderful!"

"Yes, and the most important part is that this is the only way of
keeping a record which cannot be called a 'frame-up'--for it is a
photograph of the sound waves.  A grafter, a murderer, or any other
criminal could be made to speak the same words in court as were put on
the phonographic record, and his voice identified beyond the shadow of
a doubt!"

Bobbie clapped his hand on the old man's shoulder.

"Why, Mr. Barton, that is the greatest invention ever made for
capturing and convicting criminals.  It's wonderful!  The Police
Departments of the big cities should buy enough machines to make you
rich, for you could demand your own price."

Barton looked dreamily toward the window, through which twinkled the
distant lights of the city streets.

"I want money, Burke, as every sane man does.  But this pet of mine
means more than money.  I want to contribute my share to justice just
as you do yours.  Who knows, some day it may reward me in a way which
no money could ever repay.  You never can tell about such things.  Who
knows?"




CHAPTER V

ROSES AND THORNS

Mary's sister was as winsome and fair as she, but to Burke's keen eyes
she was a weaker girl.  There was a suggestion of too much attention to
dress, a self-consciousness tinged with self-appreciation.

When she was introduced to Bobbie he could feel instinctively an
under-current of condescension, ever so slight, yet perceptible to the
sensitive young fellow.

"You're the first policeman I've ever met," began Lorna, with a smile,
"and I really don't half believe you are one.  I always think of them
as swinging clubs and taking a handful of peanuts off a stand, as they
walk past a corner cart.  Really, I do."

Burke reddened, but retorted, amiably enough.

"I don't like peanuts, for they always remind me of the Zoo, and I
never liked Zoos!  But I plead guilty to swinging a club when occasion
demands.  You know even millionaires have their clubs, and so you can't
deny us the privilege, can you?"

Lorna laughed, and gracefully pushed back a stray curl with her pretty
hand.  Mary frowned a bit, but trusted that Bobbie had not noticed the
lack of tact.

"I've seen policemen tugging at a horse's head and getting nearly
trampled to death to save some children in a runaway carriage.  That
was on Fifth Avenue yesterday, just when we quit work, Lorna."  She
emphasized the word "work," and Bobbie liked her the more for it.
"And, last winter, I saw two of them taking people out on a
fire-escape, wet, and covered with icicles, in a big fire over there on
Manhattan Avenue.  They didn't look a bit romantic, Lorna, and they
even had red faces and pug noses.  But I think that's a pleasanter
memory than shoplifting from peanut stands."

Lorna smiled winningly, however, and sat down, not without a decorative
adjustment of her pretty silk dress.  Bobbie forgave her, principally
because she looked so much like Mary.

They chatted as young people will, while old Barton mumbled and studied
over his drawings, occasionally adding a detail, and calculating on a
pad as though he were working out some problem in algebra.

Lorna's chief topic was the theater and dancing.

Mary endeavored to bring the conversation around to other things.

"I have to admit that I'm very green on theaters, Miss Barton," said
Bobbie to the younger sister.  "I love serious plays, and these
old-fashioned kind of comedies, which teach a fellow that there's some
happiness in life----but, I don't get the time to attend them.  My
station is down on the East Side, and I see so much tragedy and
unhappiness that it has given me about all the real-life plays I could
want, since I came to the police work."

Lorna scoffed, and tossed her curls.

"Oh, I don't like that stupid old stuff myself.  I like the musical
comedies that have dancing, and French dresses, and cleverness.  I
think all the serious plays nowadays are nothing but scandal--a girl
can't go to see them without blushing and wishing she were at home."

"I don't agree with you, Lorna.  There are some things in life that a
girl should learn.  An unpleasant play is likely to leave a bad taste
in one's mouth, but that bad taste may save her from thinking that evil
can be honey-coated and harmless.  Why, the show we saw the other
night--those costumes, those dances, and the songs!  There was nothing
left to imagine.  They stop serious plays, and ministers preach sermons
about them, while the musical comedies that some of the managers
produce are a thousand times worse, for they teach only a bad lesson."

As Lorna started to reply the bell rang and Mary went to the door.

Two young men were outside and, at Mary's stiff invitation, they
entered.  Burke rose, politely.

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Baxter?" exclaimed Lorna, enthusiastically, as
she extended one hand and arranged that disobedient lock of hair with
the other.  "Come right in, this is such a pleasant surprise."

Baxter advanced, and introduced his companion.

"This is my friend, Reggie Craig, Miss Barton.  We're just on our way
down to Dawley's for a little supper and a dance afterward.  You know
they have some great tangoing there, and I know you like it."

Lorna introduced Craig and Baxter to the others.  As she came to Bobbie
she said, "This is Mr. Burke.  You wouldn't believe it, but he is a----"

"Friend of father's," interrupted Mary, with a look which did not
escape either Bobbie or Lorna.  "Won't you sit down, gentlemen?"

Burke was studying the two men with his usual rapidity of observation.

Baxter was tall, with dark, curly hair, carefully plastered straight
back from a low, narrow forehead.  His grooming was immaculate: his
"extreme" cutaway coat showed a good physique, but the pallor of the
face above it bespoke dissipation of the strength of that natural
endowment.  His shoes, embellished with pearl buttons set with
rhinestones, were of the latest vogue, described in the man-who-saw
column of the theater programmes.  He looked, for all the world, like
an advertisement for ready-tailored suitings.

His companion was slighter in build but equally fastidious in
appearance.  When he drew a handkerchief from his cuff Bobbie completed
the survey and walked over toward old Barton, to look at the more
interesting drawings.

"You girls must come along to Dawley's, you simply must, you know,"
began Baxter, still standing.  "Of course, we'd be glad to have your
father's friend, if he likes dancing."

"That's very kind of you, but you know I've a lot to talk about with
Mr. Barton," answered Bobbie, quietly.

"May we go, father?" asked Lorna, impetuously.

"Well, I thought," said the old gentleman, "I thought that you'd----"

"Father, I haven't been to a dance or a supper since you were injured.
You know that," pouted Lorna.

"What do you want to do, Mary dear?" asked the old man, helplessly.

"It's very kind of Mr. Baxter, but you know we have a guest."

Mary quietly sat down, while Lorna's temper flared.

"Well, I'm going anyway.  I'm tired of working and worrying.  I want to
have pleasure and music and entertainment like thousands of other girls
in New York.  I owe it to myself.  I don't intend to sit around here
and talk about tenement fires and silly old patents."

Burke was embarrassed, but not so the visiting fashion plates.  Baxter
and Craig merely smiled at each other with studied nonchalance; they
seemed used to such scenes, thought Bobbie.

Lorna flounced angrily from the room, while her father wiped his
forehead with a trembling hand.

"Why, Lorna," he expostulated weakly.  But Lorna reappeared with a
pretty evening wrap and her hat in her hand.  She donned the hat,
twisting it to a coquettish angle, and Baxter unctuously assisted her
to place the wrap about her shoulders.

"Lorna, I forbid your going out at this time of the evening with two
gentlemen we have never met before," cried Mary.

But Lorna opened the door and wilfully left the room, followed by
Craig.  Baxter turned as he left, and smiled sarcastically.

"Good-_night_!" he remarked, with a significant accent on the last word.

Mary's face was white, as she looked appealingly at Burke.  He tried to
comfort her in his quiet way.

"I wouldn't worry, Miss Mary.  I think they are nice young fellows, and
you know young girls are the same the world over.  I am sure they are
all right, and will look after her--you know, some people do think a
whole lot of dancing and jolly company, and it is punishment for them
to have to talk all the time on serious things.  I don't blame her, for
I'm poor company--and only a policeman, after all."

John Barton looked disconsolately at the door which had slammed after
the trio.

"You do think it's all right, don't you, Burke?"

"Why, certainly," said Burke.  He lied like a gentleman and a soldier.

Old Barton was ill at ease, although he endeavored to cover his anxiety
with his usual optimism.

"We are too hard on the youngsters, I fear," he began.  "It's true that
Lorna has not had very much pleasure since I was injured.  The poor
child has had many sleepless nights of worry since then, as well.  You
know she has always been our baby, while my Mary here has been the
little mother since my dear wife left us."

Mary forced a smiling reply: "You dear daddy, don't worry.  I know
Lorna's fine qualities, and I wish we could entertain more for her than
we do right in our little flat.  That's one of the causes of New York's
unnatural life.  In the small towns and suburbs girls have porches and
big parlors, while they live in a surrounding of trees and flowers.
They have home music, jolly gatherings about their own pianos; we can't
afford even to rent a piano just now.  So, there, daddy, be patient and
forgive Lorna's thoughtlessness."

Barton's face beamed again, as he caressed his daughter's soft brown
curls, when she leaned over his chair to kiss him.

"My blessed little Mary: you are as old as your mother--as old as all
motherhood, in your wisdom.  I feel more foolishly a boy each day, as I
realize the depth of your devotion and love."

Burke's eyes filled with tears, which he manfully wiped away with a
sneaking little movement of his left hand, as he pretended to look out
of the window toward the distant lights.  A man whose tear-ducts have
dried with adolescence is cursed with a shriveled soul for the rest of
his life.

"Now, we mustn't let our little worry make you feel badly, Mr. Burke.
Do you know, I've been thinking about a little matter in which you are
concerned?  Why don't you have your interests looked after in your home
town?"

"My uncle?  Well, I am afraid that's a lost cause.  I went to the
family lawyer when I returned from my army service, and he charged me
five dollars for advising me to let the matter go.  He said that law
was law, and that the whole matter had been ended, that I had no
recourse.  I think I'll just stick to my work, and let my uncle get
what pleasure he can out of his treatment of me."

"That is a great mistake.  If he was your family lawyer, it is very
possible that your uncle anticipated your going to him.  And some
lawyers have elastic notions of what is possible--depending upon the
size of your fee.  Now, I have a young friend down town.  He is a
patent lawyer, and I trust him.  Why don't you let him look into this
matter.  I have given him other cases before, through my connections
with the Greshams.  He proved honorable and energetic.  Let me write
you out a letter of introduction."

"Perhaps you are right.  I appreciate your advice and it will do no
harm to let him try his best," said Bobbie.  "I'll give him the facts
and let him investigate matters."

The old man wrote a note while Burke and Mary became better acquainted.
Even in her attempt to speak gaily and happily, Bobbie could discern
her worriment.  As Barton finished his writing, handing the envelope to
Burke, the younger man decided to take a little initiative of his own.

"It's late, Mr. Barton.  I have had a pleasant evening, and I hope I
may have many more.  But you know I promised Doctor MacFarland, the
police surgeon, that I would go to bed early on the days when I was off
duty.  So I had better be getting back down town."

They protested cordially, but Bobbie was soon out on the street,
walking toward the Subway.

He did not take the train for his own neighborhood, however.  Instead
he boarded a local which stopped at Sixty-sixth Street, the heart of
what is called the "New Tenderloin."

In this district are dozens of dance halls, flashy restaurants and
_cafes chantantes_.  A block from the Subway exit was the well-known
establishment called "Dawley's."  This was the destination of Baxter
and Craig, with Lorna Barton.  Bobbie thought it well to take an
observation of the social activities of these two young men.

He entered the big, glittering room, his coat and hat rudely jerked
from his arms by a Greek check boy, at the doorway, without the useless
formula of request.

The tables were arranged about the walls, leaving an open space in the
center for dancing.  Nearly every chair was filled, while the popping
of corks and the clinking of glasses even so early in the evening
testified to the popularity of Dawley's.

"They seem to prefer this sort of thing to theaters," thought Bobbie.
"Anyway, this crowd is funnier than most comedies I've seen."

He looked around him, after being led to a corner seat by the
obsequious head waiter.  There was a preponderance of fat old men and
vacuous looking young girls of the type designated on Broadway as
"chickens."  Here and there a slumming party was to be seen--elderly
women and ill-at-ease men, staring curiously at the diners and dancers;
young married couples who seemed to be enjoying their self-thrilled
deviltry and new-found freedom.  An orchestra of <DW64> musicians were
rattling away on banjos, mandolins, and singing obligatos in
deep-voiced improvisations.  The drummer and the cymbalist were the
busiest of all; their rattling, clanging, banging addition to the music
gave it an irresistible rhythmic cadence.  Even Burke felt the call of
the dance, until he studied the evolutions of the merrymakers.  Oddly
assorted couples, some in elaborate evening dress, women in
shoulderless, sleeveless, backless gowns, men in dinner-coats, girls in
street clothes with yard-long feathers, youths in check suits, old men
in staid business frock coats--what a motley throng!  All were busily
engaged in the orgy of a bacchanalian dance in which couples reeled and
writhed, cheek to cheek, feet intertwining, arms about shoulders.
Instead of enjoying themselves the men seemed largely engaged in
counting their steps, and watching their own feet whenever possible:
the girls kept their eyes, for the most part, upon the mirrors which
covered the walls, each watching her poises and swings, her hat, her
curls, her lips, with obvious complacency.

Burke was nauseated, for instead of the old-time fun of a jolly dance,
this seemed some weird, unnatural, bestial, ritualistic evolution.

"And they call this dancing?" he muttered.  "But, I wonder where Miss
Lorna is?"

He finally espied her, dancing with Baxter.  The latter was swinging
his arms and body in a snakey, serpentine one-step, as he glided down
the floor, pushing other couples out of the way.  Lorna, like the other
girls, lost no opportunity to admire her own reflection in the mirrors.

Burke was tempted to rush forward and intercede, to pull her out of the
arms of the repulsive Baxter.  But he knew how foolish he would appear,
and what would be the result of such an action.

As he looked the waiter approached for his order.

Burke took the menu, decorated with dancing figures which would have
seemed more appropriate for some masquerade ball poster, for the Latin
Quarter, and began to read the _entrees_.

As he looked down two men brushed past his table, and a sidelong glance
gave him view of a face which made him quickly forget the choice of
food.

It was Jimmie the Monk, flashily dressed, debonnaire as one to the
manor born, talking with Craig, the companion of Baxter.

Burke held the menu card before his face.  He was curious to hear the
topic of their conversation.  When he did so--the words were clear and
distinct, as Baxter and Jimmie sat down at a table behind him--his
heart bounded with horror.

"Who's dis new skirt, Craig?"

"Oh, it's a kid Baxter picked up in Monnarde's candy store.  It's the
best one he's landed yet, but we nearly got in Dutch to-night when we
went up to her flat to bring her out.  Her old man and her sister were
there with some nut, and they didn't want her to go.  But Baxter
"lamped" her, and she fell for his eyes and sneaked out anyway.  You
better keep off, Jimmie, for you don't look like a college boy--and
that's the gag Baxter's been giving her.  She thinks she's going to a
dance at the Yale Club next week.  It's harder game than the last one,
but we'll get it fixed to-night.  You better send word to Izzie to
bring up his taxi--in about an hour."

"I'll go now, Craig.  Tell Baxter dat it'll be fixed.  Where'll he take
her?"

Craig replied in a low tone, which thwarted Burke's attempt to
eavesdrop.




CHAPTER VI

THE WORK OF THE GANGSTERS

Bobbie Burke's eyes sparkled with the flame of battle spirit, yet he
maintained an outward calm.  He turned his face toward the wall of the
restaurant while Jimmie the Monk tripped nonchalantly out into the
street.  Burke did not wish to be recognized too soon.  The <DW64>
musicians struck up a livelier tune than before.  The dancing couples
bobbed and writhed in the sensuous, shameless intimacies of the
demi-mondaine bacchante.  The waiters merrily juggled trays, stacked
skillfully with vari- drinks, and bumped the knees of the
close-sitting guests with silvered champagne buckets.  Popping corks
resounded like the distant musketry of the crack sharp-shooters of the
Devil's Own.  Indeed, this was an ambuscade of the greatest, oldest,
cruellest, most blood-thirsty conflict of civilized history--the War of
the Roses--the Massacre of the Innocents!  In Bobbie's ears the
jangling tambourine, the weird splutterings of the banjos, the twanging
of the guitars, the shrill music of the violins and clarionet, the
monotonous rag-time pom-pom of the piano accompanist, the clash and
bang of cymbal and base-drum, the coarse minor cadences of the <DW64>
singers--all so essential to cabaret dancing of this class--sounded
like the war pibroch of a Satanic clan of reincarnate fiends.

The waiter was serving some savory viands, for such establishments
cater cleverly to the beast of the dining room as well as of the
boudoir.

But Burke was in no mood to eat or drink.  His soul was sickened, but
his mind was working with lightning acumen.

"Bring me my check now as I may have to leave before you come around
again," he directed his waiter.

"Yes, sir, certainly," responded the Tenderloin Dionysius, not without
a shade of regret in his cackling voice.  Early eaters and short
stayers reduced the percentage on tips, while moderate orders of drinks
meant immoderate thrift--to the waiter.

The check was forthcoming at once.  Burke quietly corrected the
addition of the items to the apparent astonishment of the waiter.  He
produced the exact change, while a thunder-storm seemed imminent on the
face of his servitor.  Burke, however, drew forth a dollar bill from
his pocket, and placed it with the other change, smiling significantly.

"Oh, sir, thank you"--began the waiter, surprised into the strictly
unprofessional weakness of an appreciation.

Bobbie, with a left-ward twitch of his head, and a slight quiver of the
lid of his left eye, brought an attentive ear close to his mouth.

"My boy, I want you to go outside and have the taxicab starter reserve
a machine for 'Mr. Green.'  Tell him to have it run forward and clear
of the awning in front of the restaurant--slip him this other dollar,
now, and impress on him that I want that car about twenty-five feet to
the right of the door as you go out."

The waiter nodded, and leered slyly.

"All right, sir--I get ye, Mr. Green.  It's a quick getaway, is that
it?"

"Exactly," answered Bobbie, "and I want the chauffeur to have all his
juice on--the engine cranked and ready for another Vanderbilt Cup
Race."  Bobbie gave the waiter one of his best smiles--behind that
smile was a manful look, a kindliness of character and a great power of
purpose, which rang true, even to this blase and cynical dispenser of
the grape.  The latter nodded and smiled, albeit flabbily, into the
winsome eyes of the young officer.

"Ye're a reg'lar fellar, Mr. Green, I kin see that!  Trust me to have a
lightning conductor fer you--with his lamps lit and burning.  These
nighthawk taxis around here make most of their mazuma by this fly
stuff--generally the souses ain't got enough left for a taxicab, and
it's a waste o' time stickin' 'em up since the rubes are so easy with
the taxi meter.  But just look out for a little badger work on the
chauffeur when ye git through with 'im."

Burke nodded.  Then he added.  "Just keep this to yourself, won't you?
There's nothing crooked about it--I'm trying to do some one a good
turn.  Tell them to keep the taxi ready, no matter how long it takes."

"Sure and I will, Mr. Green."

The waiter walked away toward the front door, where he carried out
Burke's instructions, slipping the second bill into the willing hand of
the starter.

As he came back he shrewdly studied the face of the young policeman who
was quietly listening to the furious fusillade of the ragtime musicians.

"Well, that guy's not as green as he says his name is.  He don't look
like no crook, neither!  I wonder what his stall is?  Well, _I_ should
worry!"

And he went his way rejoicing in the possession of that peace of mind
which comes to some men who let neither the joys nor woes of others
break through the armament of their own comfortable placidity.  Every
night of his life was crowded with curious, sad and ridiculous
incidents; had he let them linger long in his mind his hand and
temperament would have suffered a loss of accumulative skill.  That
would have spelled ruin, and this particular waiter, like so many of
his flabby-faced brothers, was a shrewd tradesman--in the commodities
of his discreetly elastic memory--and the even more valuable asset, a
talent for forgetting!

Burke was biding his time, and watching developments.

He saw the mealy-faced Baxter take Lorna out upon the dancing floor for
the next dance.  They swung into the rhythm of the dance with easy
familiarity, which proved that the girl was no novice in this style of
terpsichorean enjoyment.

"She has been to other dances like this," muttered Bobbie as he watched
with a strange loathing in his heart.  "It's terrible to see the girls
of a great modern city like New York entering publicly into a dance
which I used to see on the Barbary Coast in 'Frisco.  If they had seen
it danced out there I don't believe they'd be so anxious to imitate it
now."

Lorna and Baxter returned through the crowded merrymakers to their
seats, and sat down at the table.

"You need another cocktail," suggested Baxter, after sipping one
himself and forgetting the need for reserve in his remarks.  "You
mustn't be a bum sport at a dance like this, Miss Barton."

"Oh, Mr. Baxter, I don't dare go home with a breath like cocktails.
You know Mary and I sleep together," objected Lorna.

"Don't worry about that, little girlie," said Baxter.  "She won't mind
it to-night."

To Burke's keen ears there was a shade of hidden menace in the words.

"Come on, now, just this one," said Baxter coaxingly.  "It won't hurt.
There's always room for one more."

What a temptation it was for the muscular policeman to swing around and
shake the miserable wretch as one would a cur!

But Bobbie had learned the value of controlling his temper; that is one
of the first requisites of a policeman's as well as of an army man's
life.

"Do you know, Mr. Baxter," said Lorna, after she had yielded to the
insistence of her companion, "that cocktail makes me a little dizzy.  I
guess it will take me a long while to get used to such drinks.  You
know, I've been brought up in an awfully old-fashioned way.  My father
would simply kill me if he thought I drank beer--and as for cocktails
and highballs and horse's necks, and all those real drinks ... well, I
hate to think of it.  Ha! ha!"

And she laughed in a silly way which made Burke know that she was
beginning to feel the effect.

"I wonder if I hadn't better assert myself right now?" he mused,
pretending to eat a morsel.  "It would cause a commotion, but it would
teach her a lesson, and would teach her father to keep a closer watch."

Just then he heard his own name mentioned by the girl behind.

"Say, Mr. Baxter, you came just at the right time to-night.  That Burke
who was calling on father is a stupid policeman, whom he met in the
hospital, and I was being treated to a regular sermon about life and
wickedness and a lot of tiresome rot.  I don't like policemen, do you?"

"I should say not!" was Baxter's heartfelt answer.

They were silent an instant.

"A policeman, you say, eh?"

"Yes; I certainly don't think he's fit to call on nice people.  The
next think we know father will have firemen and cab-drivers and street
cleaners, I suppose.  They're all in the same class to me--just
servants."

"What precinct did he come from?"

Baxter's tone was more earnest than it had been.

Burke's face reddened at the girl's slur, but he continued his waiting
game.

"Precinct?  What's that?  I don't know where he came from.  He's a New
York policeman, that's all I found out.  It didn't interest me, why
should it you?  Oh, Mr. Baxter, look at that beautiful willow plume on
that girl's hat.  She is a silly-looking girl, but that is a wonderful
hat."

Baxter grunted and seemed lost in thought.

Burke espied Jimmie the Monk meandering through the tables, in company
with a heavy, smooth-faced man whose eyes were directed from even that
distance toward the table at which Lorna sat.

Burke wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, thus cutting off
Jimmie's possible view of his features.

"Ah, Jimmie, back again.  And I see you're with my old friend, Sam
Shepard!"

Baxter rose to shake hands with the newcomer.  He introduced him to
Lorna, backing close against Burke's shoulder as he did so.

"This is my friend, Sam Shepard, the theatrical manager, Miss Lorna,"
began Baxter.  "He's the man who can get you on the stage.  You know I
was telling you about him.  This is Miss Barton, you've heard about,
Sam.  Sit down and tell her about your new comic opera that you're
casting now."

[Illustration: "This is my friend, Sam Shepard, the theatrical manager,
Miss Lorna.  He's the man who can get you on the stage.]

As Shepard shook Lorna's hand, Jimmie leaned over toward Baxter's ear
to whisper.  They were not two feet from Burke's own ears, so he heard
the message: "I've got de taxi ready.  Now, make a good getaway to
Reilly's house, Baxter."

"Say, Jimmie, just a minute," murmured Baxter.  "This girl says a cop
was up calling on her father.  I met the guy.  His name was Burke.  Do
you know him?  Is he apt to queer anything?"

Jimmie the Monk started.

"Burke?  What did he look like?"

"Oh, pretty slick-looking gink.  Well set-up--looked like an army man,
and gave me a hard stare when he lamped me.  Had been in the hospital
with the old fellow."

"Gee, dat's Burke, de guy dat's been after me, and I'm goin' ter do
'im.  Is he buttin' in on dis?"

"Yes; what about him?  You're not scared of him, are you?"

"Naw; but he's a bad egg.  Say, he's a rookie dat t'inks 'e kin clean
up our gang.  Now, you better dish dis job and let Shepard pull de
trick.  Take it from yer Uncle Jim!"

Every syllable was audible to Burke, but Lorna was exchanging
pleasantries with Shepard, who had taken Baxter's seat.

"All right, Jimmie.  Beat it yourself."

Baxter turned around as Jimmie quietly slipped away.  Baxter leaned
over the table to smirk into the face of the young girl.

"Say, Miss Lorna, some of my friends are over in another corner of the
room, and I'm going to speak to them.  Now, save the next tango for me.
Mr. Shepard will fix it for you, and if you jolly him right you can get
into his new show, 'The Girl and the Dragon,' can't she, Sam?"

"Where are you going?" exclaimed Shepard in a gruff tone.  "You've got
to attend to something for me to-night."

There was a brutal dominance which vibrated in his voice.  Here was a
desperate character, thought Burke, who was accustomed to command
others; he was not the flabby weakling type, like Baxter and Craig.

"It's better for you to do it, Sam.  I'll tell you later.  Jimmie just
tipped me off that there's a bull on the trail that's lamped me."

Burke understood the shifting of their business arrangement, but to
Lorna the crook's slang was so much gibberish.

"What did you say?  I can't understand such funny talk, Mr. Baxter.  I
guess I had too strong a cocktail, he! he!" she exclaimed.  "What about
a lamp?"

"That's all right, girlie," said Shepard, as Baxter walked quickly
away.  "Some of his friends want him to go down to the Lamb's Club, but
he doesn't want to leave you.  We'll have a little chat together while
he is gone.  I'm not very good at dancing or I'd get you to turkey trot
with me."

Lorna's voice was whiny now as she responded.

"Oh, I'm feeling funny.  That cocktail was too much for me....  I guess
I'd better go home."

"There, there, my dear," Shepard reassured her.  "You get that way for
a little while, but it's all right.  You'd better have a little
beer--that will straighten you up."

Only by the strongest will power could Burke resist his desire to
interpose now, yet the words of the men prepared him for something
which it would be more important to wait for--to interfere at the
dramatic moment.

"Here, waiter, a bottle of beer!" ordered Shepard.

Burke turned half way around, and, by a side-long glance, he saw
Shepard pulling a small vial from his hip pocket as he sat with his
back to the policeman.

"Oh, ho!  So here it comes!" thought Bobbie.  "I'll be ready to stand
by now."

He rose and pushed back his chair.  The waiter had brought the bottle
with surprising alacrity, and Shepard poured out a glass for the young
girl.  Bobbie stood fumbling with his change as an excuse to watch.
Lorna was engrossed in the bubbling foam of the beer and did not notice
him.

"I guess he's afraid to do it now," thought Bobbie, as he failed to
observe any suspicious move.

True, Shepard's hand passed swiftly over the glass as he handed it to
the girl.

She drank it at his urging, and then suddenly her head sank forward on
her breast.

Bobbie stifled his indignation with difficulty as Shepard gave an
exclamation of surprise.

"My wife!  She is sick!  She has fainted!" cried Shepard to Burke's
amazement.  The man acted his part cunningly.

He had sprung to his feet as he rushed around the table to catch the
toppling girl.  With a quick jump to her side Bobbie had caught her by
an arm, but Shepard indignantly pushed him aside.

"How dare you, sir?" he exclaimed.  "Take your hands off my wife."

The man's bravado was splendid, and even the diners were impressed.
Most of them laughed, for to them it was only another drunken woman, a
familiar and excruciatingly funny object to most of them.

"Aw, let the goil alone," cried one red-faced man who sat with a small,
heavily rouged girl of about sixteen.  "Don't come between man and
wife!"  And he laughed with coarse appreciation of his own humor.

Shepard had lifted Lorna with his strong arms and was starting toward
the door.  Burke saw the entrance to the men's cafe on the right.  He
quietly walked into it, and then hurried toward the front, out through
the big glass door to the street.

There, about twenty feet to his right, he saw the purring taxicab which
he had ordered waiting for a quick run.

In front of the restaurant entrance, now to his left, was another car,
with a chauffeur standing by its open door, expectantly.

Burke ran up just as Shepard emerged from the restaurant entrance.  The
officer sprang at the big fellow and dealt him a terrible blow on the
side of the head.  The man staggered and his hold weakened.  As he did
so Burke caught the inanimate form of the young girl in his own arms.
He turned before Shepard or the waiting chauffeur could recover from
their surprise and ran toward the car at the right.  The two men were
after him, but Burke lifted the girl into the machine and cried to the
chauffeur:

"Go it!"

"Who are you?"

"I'm Mr. Green," said Burke.  The chauffeur sprang into his seat, but
as he did so Shepard was upon the young officer and trying to climb
into the door.

Biff!

Here was a chance for every ounce of accumulated ire to assert itself,
and it did so, through the hardened muscles of Officer 4434's right
arm.  Shepard sank backward with a groan, as the taxi-cab shot forward
obedient to its throttle.

Burke was bounced backward upon the unconscious girl, but the machine
sped swiftly with a wise chauffeur at its wheel.  He did not know where
his passenger wished to go, but his judgment told him it was away from
pursuit.

He turned swiftly down the first street to the right.

Back on the sidewalk before the restaurant there was intense
excitement.  Baxter, Craig and Jimmie the Monk had followed the artful
Shepard to the street by the side door.  They assisted the chauffeur in
picking up the bepummeled man from the sidewalk.

"Say, Jimmie!  There's somebody shadowing us.  Get into that cab of
Mike's and we'll chase him!" cried Baxter.

They rushed for the other cab, leaving Craig to mop Shepard's wan face
with a perfumed handkerchief.

After the slight delay of cranking it the second car whizzed along the
street.  But that delay was fatal to the purpose of the pursuers, for
ere they had reached the corner down which the first machine had turned
the entire block was empty.  Burke's driver had made another right turn.

Bobbie opened the door and yelled to the chauffeur as he hung to the
jamb with difficulty.

"Drive past the restaurant again very slowly, but don't stop.  Then
keep on going straight up the avenue."

The chauffeur knew the advantage of doubling on a trail, and by the
time he had passed the restaurant after a third and fourth right
turn--making a trip completely around the block--the excitement had
died down.  The pursuers had gone on a wild-goose chase in the opposite
direction, little suspecting such a simple trick.

The taxicab rumbled nonchalantly up the avenue for five or six blocks,
while Burke worked in a vain effort to restore his fair prisoner to
consciousness.

The car stopped in a dark stretch between blocks.

"Where shall I go, governor?" asked the chauffeur as he jumped down and
opened the door.  "Is your lady friend any better, governor?"

Burke looked at the man's face as well as he could in the dim light,
wondering if he could be trusted.  He decided that it was too big a
chance, for there is a secret fraternity among chauffeurs and the
denizens of the Tenderloin which is more powerful than any benevolent
order ever founded.  This man would undoubtedly tell of his destination
to some other driver, surely to the starter at the restaurant.  Then it
would be a comparatively simple matter for Baxter and Jimmie the Monk
to learn the details in enough fullness to track his own identity.  For
certain reasons, already formulated, Bobbie Burke wished to keep Jimmie
and his gangsters in blissful ignorance of his own knowledge of their
activities.

"This is my girl, and one of those fellows tried to steal her," said
Burke in a gruff voice.  "I was onto the game, and that's why I had the
starter get you ready.  She lives on West Seventy-first Street, near
West End Avenue.  Now, you run along on the right side of the street,
and I'll point out the house."

He was planning a second "double" on his trail.  The chauffeur grunted
and started the machine again.  The girl was moaning with pain in an
incoherent way.

As they rolled slowly down West Seventy-first Street Bobbie saw a house
which showed a light in the third floor.  Presumably the storm door
would not be locked, as it would have been in case the tenants were
away.  He knocked on the window.

The taxi came to a stop.

The chauffeur opened the door and Burke sprang out.

"Here's a ten-dollar bill, my boy," said Burke.  "I'll have to square
her with her mother, so you come back here in twenty minutes and take
me down to that restaurant.  I'm going to clean out that joint, and
I'll pay you another ten to help me.  Are you game?"

The chauffeur laughed wisely.

"Am I game?  Just watch me."

Burke lifted Lorna out and turned toward the steps.

"Now, don't leave me in the lurch.  Be back in exactly twenty minutes,
and I'll be on the job--and we'll make it some job.  But, don't let the
folks see you standing around, or they'll think I've been up to some
game.  Her old man will start some shooting.  Come back for me."

The chauffeur chuckled as he climbed into his car and drove away,
planning a little himself.

"Any guy that has a girl as swell as that one to live on this street
will be good for a hundred dollars before I get through with him," he
muttered as he took a chew of tobacco.  "And I've got the number of
that house, too.  Her old man will give a good deal to keep this out of
the papers.  I know my business, even if I didn't go to college!"

As the chauffeur disappeared around the corner, after taking a look
toward the steps up which Burke had carried his unconscious burden, the
policeman put Lorna down inside the vestibule.

"Now, this is a dangerous game.  It means disgrace if I get caught; but
it means a pair of broken hearts if this poor girl gets caught," he
thought.  "I'll risk nobody coming, and run for another taxi."

He hastened down the steps and walked around the corner, hurrying
toward a big hotel which stood not far from Broadway.  Here he found
another taxicab.

"There's a young lady sick at the house of one of my friends, and I'm
taking her home," said Burke to the driver.  "Hurry up, please."

The second automobile sped over the street to the house where Burke had
left the girl, and the officer hurried up the steps.  He soon
reappeared with Lorna in his arms, walked calmly down the steps, and
put her into the car.

This time he gave the correct home address, and the taxicab rumbled
along on the last stretch of the race.

They passed the first car, whose driver was already planning the ways
to spend the money which he was to make by a little scientific
blackmail.

He was destined to a long wait in front of the brownstone mansion.

After nearly an hour he decided to take things into his own hands.

"I'll get a little now," he muttered with an accompaniment of
profanity.  "That guy can't stall me."

After ringing the bell for several minutes a very angry caretaker came
to the door.

"What do you want, my man?" cried this individual in unmistakable
British accents.  "Dash your blooming impudence in waking me up at this
time in the morning."

"I want to get my taxicab fare from the gent that brought the lady here
drunk!" declared the chauffeur.  "Are you her father?"

The caretaker shook a fist in his face as he snapped back:

"I'm nobody's father.  There ain't no gent nor drunk lady here.  I'm
alone in this house, and my master and missus is at Palm Beach.  If you
don't get away from here I'm going to call the police."

With that he slammed the door in the face of the astounded chauffeur
and turned out the light in the hall.

The taxi driver walked down the steps slowly.

"Well, that's a new game on me!" he grunted.  "There's a new gang
working this town as sure as I'm alive.  I'm going down and put the
starter wise."

Down he went, to face a cross-examination from the starter, and an
accounting for his time.  He had to pay over seven dollars of his ten
to cover the period for which he had the car out.  Jimmie the Monk and
Baxter had returned from their unsuccessful chase.  As they made their
inquiries from the starter and learned the care with which the coup
d'etat had been arranged they lapsed into angry, if admiring, profanity.

"Some guy, eh, Jimmie!" exclaimed Baxter.  "But we'll find out who it
was, all right.  Leave it to me!"

"Say, dat bloke was crazy--crazy like a fox, wasn't he?" answered
Jimmie.  "He let Shepard do de deal, and den he steals de kitty!  Dis
is what I calls cut-throat competition!"




CHAPTER VII

THE CLOSER BOND

Once in the second taxicab Burke's difficulties were not at an end.

"I want to get this poor young girl home without humiliating her or her
family, if I can," was his mental resolve.  "But I can't quite plan it.
I wish I could take her to Dr. MacFarland, but his office is 'way
downtown from here."

When the car drew up before the door of Lorna's home, from which she
had departed in such blithe spirits, Bob's heart was thumping almost
guiltily.  He felt in some ridiculous way as though he were almost
responsible for her plight himself.  Perhaps he had done wrong to wait
so long.  Yet, even his quick eyesight had failed to discover the
knockout drops or powder which the wily Shepard had slipped into that
disastrous glass of beer.  Maybe his interference would have saved her
from this unconscious stupor, indeed, he felt morally certain that it
would; but Bob knew in his heart that the clever tricksters would have
turned the tables on him effectively, and undoubtedly in the end would
have won their point by eluding him and escaping with the girl.  It was
better that their operations should be thwarted in a manner which would
prevent them from knowing how sharply they were watched.  Bob knew that
these men were to be looked after in the future.

He cast aside his thoughts to substitute action.

"Here's your number, mister," said the chauffeur, who opened the door.
"Can I help you with the lady?"

"Thank you, no.  What's the charge?"

The driver twisted the lamp around to show the meter, and Burke paid
him a good tip over the price of the ride.

"Shall I wait for you?" asked the driver.

"No; that's all.  I'll walk to the subway as soon as my friend gets in.
Good night."

The chauffeur lingered a bit as Bob took the girl in his arms.  The
officer understood the suggestion of his hesitation.

"I said good night!" he spoke curtly.

The taxi man understood this time; there was no mistaking the firmness
of the hint, and he started his machine away.

The Bartons lived in one of the apartments of the building.  The front
door was locked, and so Bob was forced reluctantly to ring the bell
beneath the name which indicated their particular letter box.

He waited, holding the young girl in his arms.

"Oh, I'm so sick!" he heard her say faintly, and he realized that she
was regaining consciousness.

"If only I can get her upstairs quietly," he thought.

He was about to swing her body around in his arms so that he could ring
once more when there was a turning of the knob.

"Who is it?" came a frightened voice.

It was Mary Barton at the doorway.

"S-s-s-h!" cautioned Bob.  "It's Burke.  I'm bringing Miss Lorna home?
Don't make any noise."

"Oh!" gasped the unhappy sister.  "What's wrong?  Is she hurt?"

"No!" said Bob.  "Fortunately not."

"Is she--  Oh--  Is she--drunk?"

Burke calmed her with the reassurance of his low, steady voice.

"No, Miss Mary.  She was drugged by those rascals, and I saved her in
time.  Please don't cry, or make a noise.  Let me take her upstairs and
help you.  It's better if she does not know that I was the one to bring
her home."

Mary tried to help him; but Bob carried the girl on into the hall.

"Is your father awake?"

"No; I told him two hours ago, when he asked me from his room, that
Lorna had returned and was asleep.  He believed me.  I had to fib to
save him from breaking his dear old daddy heart.  Is she injured at
all?"

It was plainly evident that the poor girl was holding her nerves in
leash with a tremendous effort.

Bob kept on toward the stairs.

"She'll be all right when you get her into her room.  Give her some
smelling salts, and don't tell your father.  Didn't he hear the bell?"

"No; I've been waiting for her.  I put some paper in the bell so that
it would only buzz when it rang.  Let me help you, Mr. Burke.  How on
earth did you----"  She was eager in spite of her anxiety.

To see the young officer returning with her sister this way was more of
a mystery than she could fathom.  But, at Bob's sibilant command for
silence, she trustingly obeyed, and went up before him to guide the way
along the darkened stairway.

At last they reached the door of their apartment.

Mary opened it, and Bob entered, walking softly.  She led the way to
her humble little bedroom, the one which she and Lorna shared.  Bob
laid the sister upon the bed, and beckoned Mary to follow him.  Lorna
was moving now, her hands tremulous, and she was half-moaning.

"I want my Mary.  I want my Mary."

Her sister followed Burke out into the hall, which led down the steps
to the street.

"Now, remember, don't tell her about being drugged.  A man at one of
the tables put some knockout drops into a glass of water"--Bob was
softening the blow with a little honest lying--"and I rescued her just
in time.  She knows nothing about it--only warn her about the company
that she was in.  I have learned that they are worse than worthless.  I
will attend to them in my own way, and in the line of my work, Miss
Mary.  But, as you love your sister, don't ever let her go with those
men again."

Mary's hand was outstretched toward the young man's, and he took it
gently.

"You've done much for Lorna," she breathed softly, "and more for me!"

There was a sweet pressure from those soft, clasping fingers which
thrilled Bob as though somehow he was burying his face in a bunch of
roses--like that first one which had tapped its soft message for
admission to his heart, back in the hospital.

"Good night.  Don't worry.  It's all ended well, after all."

Mary drew away her fingers reluctantly as he backed down one step.

"Good night--Bob!"

That was all.  She slipped quietly inside the apartment and closed the
door noiselessly behind her.

Bob slowly descended the steps; oddly enough, he felt as though it were
an ascension of some sort.  His life seemed to be going into higher
planes, and his hopes and ambitions came fluttering into his brain like
the shower of petals from some blossom-laden tree.  He felt anew the
spring of old dreams, and the surge of new ones.

He stumbled, unsteady in his steps, his hands trembling on the railing
of the stairs, until he reached the street level.  He hurried out
through the hallway and closed the door behind him.

How he longed to retrace his steps for just one more word!  That first
tender use of his name had a wealth of meaning which stirred him more
than a torrent of endearing terms.

The keen bracing air of the early spring morning thrilled him.

He hurried down the street toward the subway station, elated, exalted.

"It's worth fighting every gangster in New York for a girl like her!"
he told himself.  "I never realized how bitter all this was until it
struck home to me--by striking home to some one who is loved by the
girl--I love."

The trip downtown was more tiring than he had expected.  The stimulus
of his exciting evening was now wearing off, and Bob went direct to the
station house to be handy for the duty which began early in the day.
It was not yet dawn, but the rattling milk carts, the stirring of
trucks and the early stragglers of morning workers gave evidence that
the sun would soon be out upon his daily travels.

The day passed without more excitement than usual.  Bob took his turn
after a short nap in the dormitory room of the station house.  During
his relief he rested up again.  When he was preparing to start out
again upon patrol a letter was handed him by the captain.

"Here, Burke, a little message from your best girl, I suppose," smiled
his superior.

Bob took it, and as he opened it again he felt that curious thrill
which had been aroused in him by the winsome charm of Mary Barton.  It
was a brief note which she had mailed that morning on her way to work.


"DEAR MR. BURKE--Everything was all right after all our worry.  Lorna
is heartily repentant, and thinks that she had to be brought home by
one of her 'friends' (?).  She has promised never to go with them
again, and, aside from a bad headache to-day, she is no worse for her
folly.  Father knows nothing, and, dear soul, I feel that it is better
so.  I can never thank you enough.  I hope to see you soon.

  "Cordially,
    "MARY."


Bob folded the note and tucked it into his breast pocket.  The captain
had been watching him with shrewd interest, and presently he
intercepted: "Ah, now, I guessed right.  Why, Bobbie Burke, you're even
blushing like a schoolgirl over her first beau."

Burke was just a trifle resentful under the sharp look of the captain's
gray eyes; but the unmistakable friendliness of the officer's face
drove away all feeling.

"I envy you, my boy.  I am not making fun of you," said the captain,
with keen understanding.

"Thank you, Cap," said Bob quietly.  "You guessed right both times.
It's my first sweetheart."

He buttoned his coat and started for the door.

"You'd better step around to Doc MacFarland's on your rounds this
evening and let him look you over.  It won't take but a minute, and I
don't expect him around the station.  You're not on peg-post to-night,
so you can do it."

"All right, Cap."

Burke saluted and left the station, falling into line with the other
men who were marching out on relief.

A half hour later he dropped into the office of the police surgeon, and
was greeted warmly by the old gentleman.

MacFarland was smoking his pipe in comfort after the cares and worries
of a busy day.

"Any more trouble with the gangsters, Burke?" he asked.

Bob, after a little hesitation decided to tell him about the adventure
of the night before.

"I want your advice, Doc, for you understand these things.  Do you
suppose there's any danger of Lorna's going out with those fellows
again?  You don't suppose that they were actually going to entice her
into some house, do you?"

MacFarland stroked his gray whiskers.

"Well, my boy, that is not what we Scotchmen would call a vera canny
thought!  You speak foolishly.  Why, don't you know that is organized
teamwork just as fine as they make it?  Those two fellows, Baxter, I
think you said, and Craig, are typical 'cadets.'  They are the pretty
boys who make the acquaintance of the girls, and open the way for
temptation, which is generally attended to by other men of stronger
caliber.  This fellow Shepard is undoubtedly one of the head men of
their gang.  If Jimmie the Monk is mixed up in it that is the
connecting link between these fellows and the East Side.  And it's back
to the East Side that the trail nearly always leads, for over in the
East Side of New York is the feudal fastness of the politician who
tells the public to be damned, and is rewarded with a fortune for his
pains.  The politician protects the gangster; the gangster protects the
procurer, and both of them vote early and often for the politician."

Bob sighed.

"Isn't there some way that this young girl can be warned about the
dangers she is running into?  It's terrible to think of a thing like
this threatening any girl of good family, or any other family for that
matter."

"You must simply warn her sister and have her watch the younger girl
like a hawk."

MacFarland cleaned out his pipe with a scalpel knife, and put in
another charge of tobacco.

He puffed a blue cloud before Bob had replied.

"I wish there were some way I could get co-operation on this.  I'm
going to hunt these fellows down, Doc.  But it seems to me that the
authorities in this city should help along."

"They are helping along.  The District Attorney has sent up gangster
after gangster; but it's like a quicksand, Burke--new rascals seem to
slide in as fast as you shovel out the old ones."

"I have the advantage now that they don't know who is looking after
Lorna," said Bobbie.  "But it was a hard job getting them off my track."

"That was good detective work--as good as I've heard of," said the
doctor.  "You just keep shy now.  Don't get into more gun fights and
fist scraps for a few days, and you'll get something on them again.
You know your catching them last night was just part of a general law
about crime.  The criminal always gives himself away in some little,
careless manner that hardly looks worth while worrying about.  Those
two fellows never dreamed of your following them--they let the name of
the restaurant slip out, and probably forgot about it the next minute.
And Jimmie the Monk has given you a clue to work on, to find out the
connection.  Keep up your work--but keep a bullet-proof skin for a
while."

Bob started toward the door.  A new idea came to him.

"Doctor, I've just thought of something.  I saw a picture in the paper
to-night of a big philanthropist named Trubus, or something like that,
who is fighting Raines Law Hotels, improper novels, bad moving pictures
and improving morals in general.  How do you think it would do to give
him a tip about these fellows?  He asks for more money from the public
to carry on their work.  They had a big banquet in his honor last
night."

MacFarland laughed, and took from his desk a letter, which he handed to
Bob with a wink.  The young officer was surprised, but took the paper,
and glanced at it.

"There, Burke, read this letter.  If I get one of these a day, I get
five, all in the same tune.  Isn't that enough to make a man die a
miser?"

Officer 4434 took the letter over to the doctor's student lamp and read
with amusement:


"DEAR SIR--The Purity League is waging the great battle against sin.

"You are doubtless aware that in this glorious work it is necessary for
us to defray office and other expenses.  Whatever tithe of your
blessings can be donated to our Rescue Fund will be bread cast upon the
waters to return tenfold.

"A poor widow, whose only child is a beautiful girl of seventeen, has
been taken under the care of our gentle nurses.  This unfortunate
woman, a devout church attendant, has been prostrated by the wanton
conduct of her daughter, who has left the influence of home to enter
upon a life of wickedness.

"If you will contribute one hundred dollars to the support of this
miserable old creature, we will have collected enough to pay her a
pension from the interest of the fund of ten dollars monthly.  Upon
receipt of your check for this amount we will send you, express
prepaid, a framed membership certificate, richly embossed in gold, and
signed by the President, Treasurer and Chaplain-Secretary of the Purity
League.  Your name will be entered upon our roster as a patron of the
organization.

"Make all checks payable to William Trubus, President, and on
out-of-town checks kindly add clearing-house fee.

"'Charity shall cover the multitude of sins.'"--I Peter, iv. 8.

"Yours for the glory of the Cause,
  "WILLIAM TRUBUS,
    "President, The Purity League of N. Y."


As Officer Burke finished the letter he looked quizzically at Dr.
MacFarland.

"How large was your check, doctor?"

"My boy, I came from Scotland.  I will give you three guesses."

"But, doctor, I see the top of the letter-head festooned with about
twenty-five names, all of them millionaires.  Why don't these men
contribute the money direct?  Then they could save the postage.  This
letter is printed, not typewritten.  They must have sent out thousands
about this poor old woman.  Surely some millionaire could give up one
monkey dinner and endow the old lady?"

"Burke, you're young in the ways of charity.  That old woman is an
endowment herself.  She ought to bring enough royalties for the Purity
League to buy three new mahogany desks, hire five new investigators and
four extra stenographers."

The old doctor's kindly face lost its geniality as he pounded on the
table with rising ire.

"Burke, I have looked into this organized charity game.  It is a
disgrace.  Out of every hundred dollars given to a really worthy cause,
in answer to hundreds of thousands of letters, ninety dollars go to
office and executive expenses.  When a poor man or a starving woman
finally yields to circumstances and applies to one of these
richly-endowed institutions, do you know what happens?"

Burke shook his head.

"The object of divine assistance enters a room, which has nice oak
benches down either side.  She, and most of them are women (for men
have a chance to panhandle, and consider it more self-respecting to beg
on the streets than from a religious corporation), waits her turn,
until a dizzy blonde clerk beckons condescendingly.  She advances to
the rail, and gives her name, race, color, previous condition of
servitude, her mother's great grandmother's maiden name, and a lot of
other important charitable things.  She is then referred to room six
hundred and ninety.  There she gives more of her autobiography.  From
this room she is sent to the inspection department, and she is
investigated further.  If the poor woman doesn't faint from hunger and
exhaustion she keeps up this schedule until she has walked a Marathon
around the fine white marble building devoted to charity.  At last she
gets a ticket for a meal, or a sort of trading stamp by which she can
get a room for the night in a vermin-infested lodging house, upon the
additional payment of thirty cents.  Now, this may seem exaggerated,
but honestly, my boy, I have given you just about the course of action
of these scientific philanthropic enterprises.  They are <DW74> and span
as the quarterdeck of a millionaire's yacht."

MacFarland was so disgusted with the objects of his tirade that he
tried three times before he could fill his old briar pipe.

"Doctor, why don't you air these opinions where they will count?" asked
Bobbie.  "It's time to stop the graft."

"When some newspaper is brave enough to risk the enmity of church
people, who don't know real conditions, and thus lose a few
subscribers, or when some really charitable people investigate for
themselves, it will all come out.  The real truth of that quotation at
the bottom of the Purity League letter should be expressed this way:
'Charity covers a multitude of hypocrites and grafters.'  And to my
mind the dirtiest, foulest, lowest grafter in the world is the man who
does it under the cloak of charity or religion.  But a man who
proclaims such a belief as mine is called an atheist and a destroyer of
ideals."

Burke looked at the old doctor admiringly.

"If there were more men like you, Doc, there wouldn't be so much
hypocrisy, and there would be more real good done.  Anyhow, I believe
I'll look up this angelic Trubus to see what he's like."

He took up his night stick and started for the door.

"I've spent too much time in here, even if it was at the captain's
orders.  Now I'll go out and earn what the citizens think is the easy
money of a policeman.  Good night."

"Good night, my lad.  Mind what I told you, and don't let those East
Side goblins get you."

Burke had a busy night.

He had hardly been out of the house before he heard a terrific
explosion a block away, and he ran to learn the cause.

From crowded tenement houses came swarming an excited, terror-stricken
stream of tenants.  The front of a small Italian store had been smashed
in.  It was undoubtedly the work of a bomb, and already the cheap
structure of the building had caught the flames.  Men and women,
children by the dozen, all screeched and howled in a Babel of half a
dozen languages as Bob, with his fellow officers, tried to calm them.

The engines were soon at the scene, but not until Bob and others had
dashed into the burning building half a dozen times to guide the
frightened occupants to the streets.

Mothers would remember that babies had been left inside--after they
themselves had been brought to safety.  The long-suffering policemen
would rush back to get the little ones.

The fathers of these aliens seemed to forget family ties, and even that
chivalry, supposed to be a masculine instinct, for they fought with
fist and foot to get to safety, regardless of their women and the
children.  The reserves from the station had to be called out to keep
the fire lines intact, while the grimy firemen worked with might and
main to keep the blaze from spreading.  After it was all over Burke
wondered whether these great hordes of aliens were of such benefit to
the country as their political compatriots avowed.  He had been reading
long articles in the newspapers denouncing Senators and Representatives
who wished to restrict immigration.  He had seen glowing accounts of
the value of strong workers for the development of the country's
enterprise, of the duty of Americans to open their national portal to
the down-trodden of other lands, no matter how ignorant or
poverty-stricken.

"I believe much of this vice and crime comes from letting this rabble
into the city, where they stay, instead of going out into the country
where they can work and get fresh air and fields.  They take the jobs
of honest men, who are Americans, and I see by the papers that there
are two hundred and fifty thousand men out of work and hunting jobs in
New York this spring," mused Bob.  "It appears to me as if we might
look after Americans first for a while, instead of letting in more
scum.  Cheap labor is all right; but when honest men have to pay higher
taxes to take care of the peasants of Europe who don't want to work,
and who do crowd our hospitals and streets, and fill our schools with
their children, and our jails and hospitals with their work and their
diseases, it's a high price for cheap labor."

And, without knowing it, Officer 4434 echoed the sentiments of a great
many of his fellow citizens who are not catering to the votes of
foreign-born constituents or making fortunes from the prostitution of
workers' brain and brawn.

The big steamship companies, the cheap factory proprietors and the
great merchants who sell the sweat-shop goods at high-art prices, the
manipulators of subway and road graft, the political jobbers, the
anarchistic and socialistic sycophants of class guerilla warfare are
continually arguing to the contrary.  But the policemen and the firemen
of New York City can tell a different story of the value of our alien
population of more than two million!




CHAPTER VIII

THE PURITY LEAGUE AND ITS ANGEL

In a few days, when an afternoon's relief allowed him the time, Officer
4434 decided to visit the renowned William Trubus.  He found the
address of that patron of organized philanthropy in the telephone book
at the station house.

It was on Fifth Avenue, not far from the windswept coast of the famous
Flatiron Building.

Burke started up to the building shortly before one o'clock, and he
found it difficult to make his way along the sidewalks of the beautiful
avenue because of the hordes of men and girls who loitered about,
enjoying the last minutes of their luncheon hour.

Where a few years before had been handsome and prosperous shops, with a
throng of fashionably dressed pedestrians of the city's better classes
on the sidewalks, the district had been taken over by shirtwaist and
cloak factories.  The ill-fed, foul-smelling foreigners jabbered in
their native dialects, ogled the gum-chewing girls and grudgingly gave
passage-way to the young officer, who, as usual, when off duty, wore
his civilian clothes.

"I wonder why these factories don't use the side streets instead of
spoiling the finest avenue in America?" thought Bob.  "I guess it is
because the foreigners of their class spoil everything they seem to
touch.  Our great granddaddies fought for Liberty, and now we have to
give it up and pay for the privilege!"

It was with a pessimistic thought like this that he entered the big
office structure in which was located the headquarters of the Purity
League.  Bob took the elevator in any but a happy frame of mind.  He
was determined to find out for himself just how correct was Dr.
MacFarland's estimate of high-finance-philanthropy.

On the fourth floor he left the car, and entered the door which bore
the name of the organization.

A young girl, toying with the wires of a telephone switchboard, did not
bother to look up, despite his query.

"Yes, dearie," she confided to some one at the other end of the
telephone.  "We had the grandest time.  He's a swell feller, all right,
and opened nothing but wine all evening.  Yes, I had my charmeuse
gown--the one with the pannier, you know, and----"

"Excuse me," interrupted Burke, "I'd like to speak to the president of
this company."

The girl looked at him scornfully.

"Just a minute, girlie, I'm interrupted."  She turned to look at Bob
again, and with a haughty toss of her rather startling yellow curls
raised her eyebrows in a supercilious glance of interrogation.

"What's your business?"

"That's _my_ business.  I want to see Mr. Trubus and not _you_."

"Well, nix on the sarcasm.  He's too busy to be disturbed by every book
agent and insurance peddler in town.  Tell me what you want and I'll
see if it's important enough.  That's what I'm paid for."

"You tell him that a policeman from the ---- precinct wants to see him,
and tell him mighty quick!" snapped Burke with a sharp look.

He expected a change of attitude.  But the curious, shifty look in the
girl's face--almost a pallor which overspread its artificial carnadine,
was inexplicable to him at this time.  He had cause to remember it
later.

"Why, why," she half stammered, "what's the matter?"

"You give him my message."

The girl did not telephone as Burke had expected her to do, according
to the general custom where switchboard girls send in announcement of
callers to private offices.

Instead she removed the headgear of the receiver and rose.  She went
inside the door at her back and closed it after her.

"Well, that's some service," thought Burke.  "I wonder why she's so
active after indifference?"

She returned before he had a chance to ruminate further.

"You can go right in, sir," she said.

As she sat down she watched him from the corner of her eye.  Burke
could not help but wonder at the tense interest in his presence, but
dismissed the thought as he entered the room, and beheld the president
of the Purity League.

William Trubus was seated at a broad mahogany desk, while before him
was spread a large, old-fashioned family Bible.  He held in his left
hand a cracker, which he was munching daintily, as he read in an
abstracted manner from the page before him.  In his right hand was a
glass containing a red liquid, which Burke at first sight supposed was
wine.  He was soon to be undeceived.

He stood a full minute while the president of the League mumbled to
himself as he perused the Sacred Writ.  Bobbie was thus enabled to get
a clear view of the philanthropist's profile, and to study the great
man from a good point of vantage.

Trubus was rotund.  His cheeks were rosy evidences of good health, good
meals and freedom from anxiety as to where those good meals were to
come from.  His forehead was round, and being partially bald, gave an
appearance of exaggerated intellectuality.

His nose was that of a Roman centurion--bold, cruel as a hawk's beak,
strong-nostriled as a wolf's muzzle.  His firm white teeth, as they
crunched on the cracker suggested, even stronger, the semblance to a
carnivorous animal of prey.  A benevolent-looking pair of gold-rimmed
glasses sat astride that nose, but Burke noticed that, oddly enough,
Trubus did not need them for his reading, nor later when he turned to
look at the young officer.

The plump face was adorned with the conventional "mutton-chop" whiskers
which are so generally associated in one's mental picture of bankers,
bishops and reformers.  The whiskers were so resolutely black, that
Burke felt sure they must have been dyed, for Trubus' plump hands, with
their wrinkles and yellow blotches, evidenced that the philanthropist
must have passed the three-score milestone of time.

The white gaiters, the somber black of his well-fitting broadcloth coat
of ministerial cut, the sanctified, studied manner of the man's pose
gave Burke an almost indefinable feeling that before him sat a cleverly
"made-up" actor, not a sincere, natural man of benevolent activities.

The room was furnished elaborately; some rare Japanese ivories adorned
the desk top.  A Chinese vase, close by, was filled with fresh-cut
flowers.  Around the walls were handsome oil paintings.  Beautiful
Oriental rugs covered the floor.  There hung a tapestry from some old
French convent; yonder stood an exquisite marble statue whose value
must have been enormous.

As Trubus raised the glass to drink the red liquid Bobbie caught the
glint of an enormous diamond ring which must have cost thousands.

"Well, evidently his charity begins at home!" thought the young man as
he stepped toward the desk.

Tiring of the wait he addressed the absorbed reader.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Trubus, but I was announced and told to come in
here to see you."

Trubus raised his eyebrows, and slowly turned in his chair.  His eyes
opened wide with surprise as he peered over the gold rims at the
newcomer.

"Well, well, well!  So you were, so you were."

He put down his glass reluctantly.

"You must pardon me, but I always spend my noon hour gaining
inspiration from the great Source of all inspiration.  What can I do
for you?  I understand that you are a policeman--am I mistaken?"

"No, sir; I am a policeman, and I have come to you to get your aid.  I
understand that you receive a great deal of money for your campaign for
purifying the city, and so I think you can help me in a certain work."

Trubus waved the four-carat ring deprecatingly.

"Ah, my young friend, you are in great error.  I do not receive much
money.  We toil very ardently for the cause, but worldly pleasures and
the selfishness of our fellow citizens interfere with our solving of
the great task.  We are far behind in our receipts.  How lamentably
little do we get in response to our requests for aid to charity!"

He followed Bobbie's incredulous glance at the luxurious furnishings of
his office.

"Yes, yes, it is indeed a wretched state of affairs.  Our efforts never
cease, and although we have fourteen stenographers working constantly
on the lists of people who could aid us, with a number of devout
assistants who cover the field, our results are pitiable."

He leaned back in his leather-covered mahogany desk chair.

"Even I, the president of this association, give all my time to the
cause.  And for what?  A few hundred dollars yearly--a bare modicum.  I
am compelled to eat this frugal luncheon of crackers and grape juice.
I have given practically all of my private fortune to this splendid
enterprise, and the results are discouraging.  Even the furniture of
this office I have brought down from my home in order that those who
may come to discuss our movement may be surrounded by an environment of
beauty and calm.  But, money, much money.  Alas!"

Just at this juncture the door opened and the telephone girl brought in
a basket full of letters, evidently just received from the mail man.

"Here's the latest mail, Mr. Trubus.  All answers to the form letters,
to judge from the return envelopes."

Trubus frowned at her as he caught Burke's twinkling glance.

"Doubtless they are insults to our cause, not replies to our
importunities, Miss Emerson!" he hurriedly replied.

He looked sharply at Burke.

"Well, sir, having finished what I consider my midday devotions, I am
very busy.  What can I do for you?"

"You can listen to what I have to say," retorted Burke; resenting the
condescending tone.  "I come here to see you about some actual
conditions.  I have read some of your literature, and if you are as
anxious to do some active good as you write you are, I can give you
enough to keep your entire organization busy."

It was a very different personality which shone forth from those sharp
black eyes now, than the smug, quasi-religious man who had spoken
before.

"I don't like your manner, young man.  Tell me what you have to say,
and do it quickly."

"Well, yours is the Purity League.  I happen to have run across a gang
of procurers who drug girls, and make their livelihood off the shame of
the girls they get into their clutches.  I can give you the names of
these men, their haunts, and you can apply the funds and influence of
your society in running them to earth, with my assistance and that of a
number of other policemen I know."

Trubus rose from his chair.

"I have heard this story many times before, my young friend.  It does
not interest me."

"What!" exclaimed Burke, "you advertise and obtain money from the
public to fight for purity and when a man comes to you with facts and
with the gameness to help you fight, you say you are not interested."

Trubus waved his hand toward the door by which Burke had entered.

"I have to make an address to our Board of Directors this afternoon,"
he said, "and I don't care to associate my activities nor those of the
cause for which I stand with the police department.  You had better
carry your information to your superiors."

"But, I tell you I have the leads which will land a gang of organized
procurers, if you will give me any of your help.  The police are trying
to do the best they can, but they have to fight district politics,
saloon men, and every sort of pull against justice.  Your society isn't
afraid of losing its job, and it can't be fired by political influence.
Why don't you spend some of your money for the cause that's alive
instead of on furniture and stenographers and diamond rings!"

The cat was out of the bag.

Trubus brought his fist down with a bang which spilled grape juice on
his neat piles of papers.

"Don't you dictate to me.  You police are a lot of grafters, in league
with the gangsters and the politicians.  My society cares for the
unfortunate and seeks to work its reforms by mentally and spiritually
uplifting the poor.  We have the support of the clergy and those people
who know that the public and the poor must be brought to a spiritual
understanding.  Pah!  Don't come around to me with your story of
'organized traffic.'  That's one of the stories originated by the
police to excuse their inefficiency!"

Burke's eyes flamed as he stood his ground.

"Let me tell you, Mr. Trubus, that before you and your clergy can do
any good with people's souls you've got to take more care of their
bodies.  You've got to clean out some of the rotten tenement houses
which some of your big churches own.  I've seen them--breeding places
for tuberculosis and drunkenness, and crime of the vilest sort.  You've
got to give work to the thousands of starving men and women, who are
driven to crime, instead of spending millions on cathedrals and altars
and statues and stained glass windows, for people who come to church in
their automobiles.  A lot of your churches are closed up when the
neighborhood changes and only poor people attend.  They sell the
property to a saloonkeeper, or turn it into a moving-picture house and
burn people to death in the rotten old fire-trap.  And if you don't
raise your hand, when I come to you fair and square, with an honest
story--if you dare to order me out of here, because you've got to gab a
lot of your charity drivel to a board of directors, instead of taking
the interest any real man would take in something that was real and
vital and eating into the very heart of New York life, I'm going to
show you up, and put you out of the charity business----so help me God!"

Burke's right arm shot into the air, with the vow, and his fist
clenched until the knuckles stood out ridged against the bloodless
pallor of his tense skin.

Trubus looked straight into Burke's eyes, and his own gaze dropped
before the white flame which was burning in them.

Burke turned without a word and walked from the office.

After he had gone Trubus rang the buzzer for his telephone girl.

"Miss Emerson, did that policeman leave his name and station?"

"No, sir; but I know his number.  He's mighty fresh."

"Well, I must find out who he is.  He is a dangerous man."

Trubus turned toward his mail, and with a slight tremor in his hand
which the shrewd girl noticed began to open the letters.

Check after check fluttered to the surface of the desk, and the great
philanthropist regained his composure by degrees.  When he had
collected the postage offertory, carefully indorsed them all, and
assembled the funds sent in for his great work, he slipped them into a
generously roomy wallet, and placed the latter in the pocket of his
frock coat.

He opened a drawer in his desk, and drew forth a tan leather bank book.
Taking his silk hat from the bronze hook by the door, he closed the
desk, after slamming the Bible shut with a sacrilegious impatience,
quite out of keeping with his manner of a half hour earlier.

"I am going to the bank, Miss Emerson.  I will return in half an hour
to lead in the prayer at the opening of the directors' meeting.  Kindly
inform the gentlemen when they arrive."

He slammed the door as he left the offices.

The telephone operator abstractedly chewed her gum as she watched his
departure.

"I wonder now.  I ain't seen his nibs so flustered since I been on this
job," she mused.  "That cop must 'ave got his goat.  I wonder!"




CHAPTER IX

THE BUSY MART OF TRADE

The hypocrisy of William Trubus and the silly fatuity of his reform
work rankled in Burke's bosom as he betook himself uptown to enjoy his
brief vacation for an afternoon with his old friend, the inventor.
Later he was to share supper when the girls came home from their work.

John Barton was busy with his new machine, and had much to talk about.
At last, when his own enthusiasm had partially spent itself, he noticed
Burke's depression.

"What is the trouble, my boy?  You are very nervous.  Has anything gone
wrong?"

Bobbie hesitated.  He wished to avoid any mention of the case in which
Lorna had so unfortunately figured.  But, at last, he unfolded the
story of his interview with the alleged philanthropist, describing the
situation of the gangsters and their work in general terms.

Barton shook his head.

"They're nearly all alike, these reformers in mahogany chairs, Burke.
I've been too busy with machinery and workmen, whom I always tried to
help along, to take much stock in the reform game.  But there's no
denying that we do need all the reforming that every good man in the
world can give us.  Only, there are many ways to go about it.  Even I,
without much education, and buried for years in my own particular kind
of rut, can see that."

"The best kind of reform will be with the night stick and the bars of
Sing Sing, Mr. Barton," answered Burke.  "Some day the police will work
like army men, with an army man at the head of them.  It won't be
politics at all then, but they'll have the backing of a man who is on
the firing line, instead of sipping tea in a swell hotel, or swapping
yarns and other things in a political club.  That day is not far
distant, either, to judge from the way people are waking things up.
But we need a little different kind of preaching and reforming now."

Barton leaned back in his wheel chair and spoke reminiscently.

"Last spring I spent Sunday with a well-to-do friend of mine in a
beautiful little town up in Connecticut.  We went to church.  It was an
old colonial edifice, quaint, clean, and outside on the green before it
were forty or fifty automobiles, for, as my friend told me with pride,
it was the richest congregation in that part of New England.

"Inside of the church was the perfume of beautiful spring flowers which
decorated the altar and were placed in vases along the aisles.  In the
congregation were happy, well-fed, healthy business men who enlivened
existence with golf, motoring, riding, good books, good music, good
plays and good dinners.  Their wives were charmingly gowned.  Their
children were rosy-cheeked, happy and normal.

"The minister, a sweet, genial old chap, recited his text after the
singing of two or three beautiful hymns.  It was that quotation from
the Bible: 'Look at the lilies of the field.  They toil not, neither do
they spin.'  In full, melodious tones he addressed his congregation,
confident in his own faith of a delightful hereafter, and still better
blessed with the knowledge that his monthly check was not subject to
the rise and fall of the stock market!

"In his sermon he spoke of the beauties of life, the freshness of
spring, its message of eternal happiness for those who had earned the
golden reward of the Hereafter.  He preached optimism, the subject of
the unceasing care and love of the Father above; he told of the
spiritual joy which comes only with a profound faith in the Almighty,
who observes even of the fall of the sparrow.

"Through the window came the soft breezes of the spring morning, the
perfume of buds on the trees and the twitter of birds.  It was a sweet
relief to me after having left the dreary streets of the city and our
busy machine shop behind, to see the happiness, content, decency and
right living shining in the faces of the people about me.  The charm of
the spring was in the message of the preacher, although it was in his
case more like the golden light of a sunset, for he was a good old man,
who had followed his own teachings, and it was evident that he was
beloved by every one in his congregation.  A man couldn't help loving
that old parson--he was so happy and honest!

"When he completed his sermon of content, happiness and unfaltering
faith, a girl sang an old-time offertory.  The services were closed
with the music of a well-trained choir.  The congregation rose.  The
worshippers finally went out of the church, chatting and happy with the
thought of a duty well done in their weekly worship, and, last but not
least, the certainty of a generous New England dinner at home.  The
church services were ended.  Later in the afternoon would be a short
song service of vespers and in the evening a simple and sincere meeting
of sweet-minded, clean-souled young men and women for prayer service.
It was all very pretty.

"As I say, Burke, it was something that soothed me like beautiful music
after the rotten, miserable, wretched conditions I had seen in the
city.  It does a fellow good once in a while to get away from the grip
of the tenements, the shades of the skyscrapers, the roar of the
factories, and the shuffling, tired footsteps of the crowds, the smell
of the sweat-shops.

"But, do you know, it seemed to me that that minister missed something;
that he was _too contented_.  There was a message that man _could_ have
given which I think might perhaps have disagreed with the digestions of
his congregation.  Undoubtedly, it would have influenced the hand that
wrote the check the following month.

"I wondered to myself why, at least, he could not have spoken to his
flock in words something like this, accompanied by a preliminary pound
on his pulpit to awaken his congregation from dreams of golf, roast
chicken and new gowns:

"'You business men who sit here so happy and so contented with
honorable wives, with sturdy children in whose veins run the blood of a
dozen generations of decent living, do you realize that there are any
other conditions in life but yours?  Do you know that Henry Brown, Joe
Smith and Richard Black, who work as clerks for you down in your New
York office, do not have this church, do not have these spring flowers
and the Sunday dinners you will have when you go back home?  Does it
occur to you that these young men on their slender salaries may be
supporting more people back home than you are?  Do you know that many
of them have no club to go to except the corner saloon or the pool
room?  Do you know that the only exercise a lot of your poor clerks,
assistants and factory workers get is standing around on the street
corners, that the only drama and comedy they ever see is in a dirty,
stinking, germ-infected, dismal little movie theater in the slums; that
the only music they ever hear is in the back room of a Raines Law hotel
or from a worn-out hurdy-gurdy?

"'Why don't you men take a little more interest in the young fellows
who work for you or in some of the old ones with dismal pasts and worse
futures?  Why don't you well-dressed women take an interest in the
stenographers and shop girls, the garment-makers--_not_ to condescend
and offer them tracts and abstracts of the Scriptures--but to improve
the moral conditions under which they work, the sanitary conditions,
and to arrange decent places for them to amuse themselves after hours.

"'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."

[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.

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.

[Illustration: The deep tones of the stranger's voice filled her with a
thrill of loathing.]

"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.

"Oh, what are we to do?" exclaimed Mary in despair.

"Well, we can go to all the theatrical offices, and make inquiries.  I
have my badge under my coat, and they will answer, all right."

They went to every big office in the whole theatrical district.  But
there, too, the search was vain.  Mary was too nervous and wretched to
enjoy the possibility of a dinner, and so Burke took her home.  Her
father asked for Lorna, to which Mary made some weak excuse which
temporarily quieted the old gentleman.

Promising to keep up his search in restaurants and offices, Burke
hurried on downtown again.  It was useless.  Throughout the night he
sought, but no trace of the girl had been found.  When he finally went
up to the Barton home to learn if the young girl had returned, he found
the old man frantic with fear and worriment.

"Burke, some ill has befallen the child," he exclaimed.  "Mary has
finally told me the truth, and my heart is breaking."

"There, sir, you must be patient.  We will try our best.  I can start
an investigation through police channels that will help along."

"But father became so worried that we called up your station.  The
officer at the other end of the telephone took the name, and said he
would send out a notice to all the stations to start a search."

"Great Scott!  That means publicity, Miss Mary.  The papers will have
the story sure, now.  There have been so many cases of girls
disappearing lately that they are just eager for another to write up."

Mary wrung her hands, and the old man chattered on excitedly.

"Then if it is publicity I don't care.  I want my daughter, and I will
do everything in the world to get her."

Burke calmed them as much as he could, but if ever two people were
frantic with grief it was that unhappy pair.

[Illustration: Father and daughter were frantic with grief.]

Bobbie hurried on downtown again, promising to keep them advised about
the situation.

After he left Mary went to her own room, and by the side of the bed
which she and the absent one had shared so long, she knelt to ask for
stronger aid than any human being could give.

If ever prayer came from the depths of a broken heart, it was that
forlorn plea for the lost sister!

All through the night they waited in vain.

      *      *      *      *      *

The first page of every New York paper carried the sensational story of
the disappearance of Lorna Barton.  Not that such a happening was
unusual, but in view of the white slavery arrests and the gang fight in
which Bobbie Burke had figured so prominently; his partial connection
with the case, and those details which the fertile-minded reporters
could fill in, it was full of human interest, and "yellow" as the heart
of any editor could desire.

Pale and heart-sick Mary went down to Monnarde's next morning.  The
girls crowded about her in the wardrobe room, some to express real
sympathy, others to show their condescension to one whom they inwardly
felt was far superior in manners, appearance and ability.

Mary thanked them, and dry-eyed went to her place behind the counter.
For reasons best known to himself, the manager was late in arriving
that morning.  The minutes seemed century-long to Mary as she hoped
against hope.

A surprisingly early customer was Mrs. Trubus, who came hurrying in
from her big automobile.  She went to Mary's counter and observed the
girl's demeanor.

"Dear, was it your sister that I read about in the paper this morning?"
she inquired.

"Yes," very meekly.  Mary tried to hold back the tears which seemed so
near the surface.

"I am so sorry.  I remembered that you once spoke of your sister when
you were waiting on me.  The paper said that she worked here at
Monnarde's, and I remembered my promise of yesterday that I would do
anything for you that I could.  Mr. Trubus is greatly interested in
philanthropic work, and of course what I could do would be very small
in comparison to his influence.  But if there is a single thing...."

"There's not, I'm afraid.  Oh, I'm so miserable--and my poor dear old
daddy!"

Even as she spoke the manager came bustling into the store.  He had
evidently passed an uncomfortable night himself, although from an
entirely different cause.  In his hand he bore the morning paper, which
he just bought outside the door from one of several newsboys who stood
there shouting about the "candy store mystery," as one paper had
headlined it.

"See, here!" cried he, turning to Mary at once.  "What do you mean by
bringing this disgrace down upon the most fashionable candy shop in New
York.  You will ruin our business."

"Oh, Mr. Fleming," began Mary brokenly, "I don't understand what you
mean.  I have done nothing, sir!"

"Nothing!  _Nothing_!  You and this miserable sister of yours!
Complaining to the police, are you, about men flirting with the girls
in my store?  Do you think society women want to come to a shop where
the girls flirt with customers?  No!  I'm done right now.  Get your hat
and get out of here!"

"Why, what do you mean?" gasped the girl, her fingers contracting and
twitching nervously.

"You're fired--bounced--ousted!" he cried.  "That's what I mean."  He
turned toward the other girls and in a strident voice, unmindful of the
two or three customers in the place, continued.  "Let this be a lesson.
I will discharge every girl in the place if I see her flirting.  The
idea!"

And he pompously walked back to his office as important as a toad in a
lonely puddle.

Mary turned to the counter, which she caught for support.  One of the
girls ran to her, but Mrs. Trubus, standing close by, placed a motherly
arm about her waist.

"There, you poor dear.  Don't you despair.  This is a large world, and
there are more places for an honest, clever girl to work in than a
candy store run by a popinjay!  You get your hat and get right into my
car, and I will take you down to my husband's office, and see what we
can do there.  Come right along, now, with me."

"Oh, I must go home!" murmured Mary brokenly.

But at the elderly woman's insistence she walked back, unsteadily, to
the wardrobe room for her hat and coat.

"How dare you walk out the front way," raved the manager, as she was
leaving with Mrs. Trubus.

Mary did not hear him.  The tears, a blessed relief, were coursing down
her flower-white cheeks as the kindly woman steadied her arm.

"Well!  That suits me well enough," muttered Mr. Fleming
philosophically, as he retired to his private office.  "I lost a lot at
poker last night--and here are two salaries for almost a full week that
won't go into anyone's pockets but my own.  First, last and always, a
business man, say I."




CHAPTER XIV

CHARITY AND THE MULTITUDE OF SINS

In the outer office of William Trubus an amiable little scene was being
enacted, far different from the harrowing ones which had made up the
last twelve hours for poor Mary.

Miss Emerson, the telephone girl, was engaged in animated repartee with
that financial genius of the "Mercantile Agency," with whose workings
the reader may have a slight familiarity, located on the floor below of
the same Fifth Avenue building.

"Yes, dearie, during business hours I'm as hard as nails, but when I
shut up my desk I'm just as good a fellow as the next one.  All work
and no play gathers no moss," remarked Mr. John Clemm.

"You're a comical fellow, Mr. Clemm.  I'd just love to go out to-night,
as you suggest.  And if you've got a gent acquaintance who is like you,
I have the swellest little lady friend you ever seen.  Her name is
Clarice, and she is a manicure girl at the Astor.  We might have a
foursome, you know."

"That's right, girlie," responded Clemm, as he ingratiatingly placed an
arm about her wasp-like waist.  "But two's company, and four's too much
of a corporation for me."

"Oh, Mr. Clemm--nix on this in here--Mr. Trubus is in his office, and
he'll get wise...."

As she spoke, not Mr. Trubus, but his estimable wife interrupted the
progress of the courtship.  She walked into the doorway, from the
elevator corridor, holding Mary's arm.

As she saw the lover-like attitude of the plump Mr. Clemm, she gasped,
and then burst out in righteous indignation.

"Why, you shameless girl, what do you mean by such actions in the
office of the Purity League?  I shall tell my husband at once!"

Miss Emerson sprang away from the amorous entanglement with Mr. Clemm
and tried to say something.  She could think of nothing which befitted
the occasion; all her glib eloquence was temporarily asphyxiated.  Mr.
Clemm stammered and looked about for some hole in which to conceal
himself.  He, too, seemed far different from the pugnacious,
self-confident dictator who reigned supreme on the floor below.

"William!  William Trubus!" called the philanthropist's wife angrily.
Her husband heard from within, and he opened the door with a thoroughly
startled look.

"My dear wife!" he began, purring and somewhat uncertain as to the
cause of the trouble.  Mary, nervous as she was, observed a curious
interchange of glances between the two men.

"William, I find this brazen creature standing here hugging this man,
as though your office, the Purity League's headquarters, were some
Lover's Lane!  It is disgusting."

"Well, well, my dear," stammered Trubus.  "Don't be too harsh."

"I am not harsh, but I have too much respect for you and the high
ideals for which I know you battle every hour of the day to endure such
a thing.  Suppose the Bishop had come in instead of myself?  Would he
consider such actions creditable to the great purpose for which the
church takes up collections twice each year throughout his diocese?"

Trubus tilted back and forth on his toes and tapped the ends of his
plump fingers together.  He was sparring for time.  The girl looked at
him saucily, and the offending visitor shrugged his shoulders as he
quietly started for the door.

"Tut, tut, my dear!  I shall reprimand the girl."

"You shall discharge her at once!" insisted Mrs. Trubus, her eyes
flashing.  "She will disgrace the office and the great cause."

Trubus was in a quandary.  He looked about him.  Miss Emerson, with a
confident smile, walked toward the general office on the left.

"I should worry about this job.  I'm sick of this charity stuff anyway.
I'm going to get a cinch job with a swell broker I know.  He runs a lot
of bunco games, too--but he admits.  Don't let the old lady worry about
me, Mr. Trubus, but don't forget that I've got two weeks' salary coming
to me.  And you just raised my weekly insult to twenty-five dollars
last Saturday, you know, Mr. Trubus."

With this Parthian shot, she slammed the door of the general
stenographers' room, and left Mr. Trubus to face his irate wife.

"You pay that girl twenty-five dollars for attending to a telephone,
William?  Why, that's more money than you earned when we had been
married ten years.  Twenty-five dollars a week for a telephone girl!"

"There, my dear, it is quite natural.  She is especially tactful and
worth it," said Trubus, in embarrassment.  "You are not exactly tactful
yourself, my dear, to nag me in front of an employee.  As the
Scriptures say, a gentle wife...."

Mrs. Trubus gave the philanthropist one deep look which seemed to cause
aphasia on the remainder of the Scriptural quotation.

For the first time Trubus noticed Mary Barton, standing in embarrassed
silence by the door, wishing that she could escape from the scene.

"Who is this young person, my dear?"

"This is a young girl who is in deep trouble, and without a position
through no fault of her own.  I brought her down to your office to have
you help her, William."

"But, alas, our finances are so low that we have no room for any
additional office force," began Trubus.

"There, that will do.  If you pay twenty-five dollars a week to the
telephone operator no wonder the finances are low.  You have just
discharged her, and I insist on your giving this young lady an
opportunity."

Trubus reddened, and tried to object.

But his good wife overruled him.

"Have you ever used a switchboard, miss?" he began.

"Yes, sir.  In my last position I began on the switchboard, and worked
that way for nearly two months.  I am sure I can do it."

Trubus did not seem so optimistic.  But, at his wife's silent
argument--looks more eloquent than a half hour of oratory, he nodded
grudgingly.

"Well, you can start in.  Just hang your hat over on the wall hook.
Come into my office, my dear wife."

They entered, and Mary sat down, still in a daze.  She had been so
suddenly discharged and then employed again that it seemed a dream.
Even the terrible hours of the night seemed some hideous nightmare
rather than reality.

Miss Emerson came from the side room, attired in a street garb which
would have brought envy to many a chorus girl.

"Oh, my dear, and so you are to follow my job.  Well, I wish you joy,
sweetie.  Tell Papa Trubus that I'll be back after lunch time for my
check.  And keep your lamps rolling on the old gink and he'll raise
your salary once a month.  He's not such a dead one if he is strong on
this charity game.  Life with Trubus is just one telephone girl after
another ... ta, ta, dearie.  I'm off stage."

And she departed, leaving simple Mary decidedly mystified by her
diatribe.

A few minutes brought another diversion.  This time it was Sylvia
Trubus and Ralph Gresham, her fiance, come for a call.

"Is my father in?" she asked, absorbed in the well groomed, selfish
young man.  Mary rang the private bell and announced Miss Trubus.  Her
father hurried to the door, and when he saw his prospective son-in-law
his face wreathed in smiles.

"Ah, Mr. Gresham, Ralph, I might say, I am delighted!  Come right in!"

Mary was startled as she heard the name of the young girl's sweetheart.

"I'm afraid that she will not be as happy as she thinks, if daddy has
told me right about Ralph Gresham.  But, oh, if I could hear something
from Bobbie about Lorna.  I believe I will call him up."

She was just summoning the courage for a private call when the private
office door opened, and Gresham, Sylvia, her mother and Trubus emerged.

"I will return in ten minutes, Miss," said Trubus.  "If there are any
calls just take a record of them.  Allow no one to go into my private
office."

"Yes, sir."

Mary waited patiently for a few moments, when suddenly a telephone bell
began to jangle inside the private office.

"That's curious," she murmured, looking at her own key-board.  "There's
no connection."  Again she heard it, insistent, yet muffled.

She walked to the door and opened it.  As she did so the wind blew in
from the open casement, making a strong draught.  Half a dozen papers
blew from Trubus' desk to the floor.  Frightened lest her
inquisitiveness should cause trouble, Mary hurriedly stooped and picked
up the papers, carrying them back to the desk.  As she leaned over it
she noticed a curious little metal box, glass-covered.  Under this
glass an automatic pencil was writing by electrical connection.

"What on earth can that be?" she wondered.  The bell tinkled, in its
muffled way, once more.

The moving pencil went on.  She watched it, fascinated, even at the
risk of being caught, hardly realizing that she was doing what might be
termed a dishonorable act.

"Paid Sawyer $250.  Girl safe, but still unconscious."

Mary's heart beat suddenly.  The thought of her own sister was so
burdensome upon her own mind that the mention by this mysterious
communication of a girl, "safe but still unconscious," strung her
nerves as though with an electric shock.  She leaned over the little
recording instrument, which was built on a hinged shelf that could be
cunningly swung into the desk body, and covered with a false front.  As
she did so she saw a curious little instrument, shaped somewhat like
the receiver of a telephone receiver.  Mary's experience with her
father's work told her what that instrument was.

"A dictagraph!" she exclaimed.

Instinctively she picked it up, and heard a conversation which was so
startling in its import to herself that her heart seemed to congeal for
an instant.

"I tell you, Jack, the girl is still absolutely out of it.  We can risk
shipping her anywhere the way she is now.  I chloroformed her in the
auto as soon as we got away from the candy store.  But that Burke
nearly had us, for I saw him coming."

"You will have to dispose of her to-day, Shepard.  Give her some strong
coffee--a good stiff needleful of cocaine will bring her around.  Do
something, that's all, or you don't get a red cent of the remaining
three hundred.  Now, I'm a busy man.  You'll have to talk louder, too,
my hearing isn't what it used to be."

"Say, Clemm, quit this kidding about your ears.  I've tried you out and
you can hear better than I can.  There's some game you're working on me
and if there is, I'll...."

"Can the tragedy, Shepard.  Save it for that famous whipping stunt of
yours.  Beat this girl up a bit, and tell me where she is."

"I'll do that in an hour, and not a minute sooner, and I've got to have
the other three hundred."

Mary dropped the receiver.  She wanted to know where that conversation
could come from.  Down the side of the desk she traced a delicate wire.
Under the rug it went, and across to the window.  She looked out.  A
fire escape passed the window.  It was open.  She saw the little wire
cross through the woodwork to the outside brick construction and down
the wall.  Softly she clambered down the fire-escape until she could
peer through the window on the floor below.

There at a desk, in the private office of the "Mercantile" association,
sat the man who had been hugging her predecessor at Trubus'
switchboard, the man who had exchanged the curious looks with the
philanthropist.  Talking to him was the man who had taken her sister
away from the candy store the day before!

Hurriedly she climbed back up the fire escape into the window, out
through the door of the private office, closing it behind her.

She telephoned Bobbie at the station house.  Fortunately he was there.
She gave him her address, and before he could express his surprise
begged him to hurry to the doorway of the building and wait for her.

He promised.

Mary kept her nerves as quiet as she could, praying that the man Sawyer
would not leave before she could follow him with Bobbie.  In a few
minutes one of the girls from the stenography room came out.  Seeing
that she was the new girl the young woman spoke: "Do you want me to
relieve you while you go to lunch.  I'm not going out to-day.  I'm so
glad to see anyone here but that fresh Miss Emerson that it will be a
pleasure."

"Thank you.  I do want to go now," said Mary nervously.  She hurriedly
donned her hat and rushed down to the street.  Bobbie was waiting for
her, as he had lost not a minute.

They waited behind the big door column for several minutes.  Suddenly a
man came swinging through the portal.  It was Sawyer.

Bobbie remembered him instantly, while Mary gripped his arm until she
pinched it.

"We'll follow him," said Burke, for the girl had already told of the
dictagraph conversation.

Follow him they did.  Up one street and down another.  At last the man
led them over into Burke's own precinct.  He ascended the iron steps of
an old-fashioned house which had once been a splendid mansion in
generations gone by.

"Ah, that's where Lorna is hidden, as sure as you're standing here,
Mary.  From what he said no harm has come to her yet.  Hurry with me to
the station house, and we'll have the reserves go through that house in
a jiffy."

It took not more than ten minutes for the police to surround the house.
But disappointment was their only reward.  Somehow or other the rascals
had received a tip of premonition of trouble; perhaps Shepard was
suspicious of his principals, and wished to move the girl out of their
reach.

The house was empty, except for a few pieces of furniture.

"Look!" cried Mary, as she went through the rooms with Bob.  "There is
a handkerchief.  She snatched it up.  It was one of her own, with the
initials "M. B." in a monogram.

"Lorna has been here," she exclaimed.  "I remember handing her that
very handkerchief when we were in the store yesterday."

"What's to be done now?" thought Bobbie.  "We had better go up to your
father and tell him what we know--it is not as bad as it might have
been."

"Precious little comfort," sighed Mary, exhausted beyond tears.

They reached the desolate home, and Bob broke the news to the old man.
As Mary poured forth her story of the discovery in Trubus' office, her
father's face lighted with renewed hope.

To their surprise he laughed, softly, and then spoke:

"Mary, my child, my long hours of study and labor on my own invention
have not been in vain.  My dictagraph-recorder--this very model here,
which I have just completed shall be put to its first great test to
save my own daughter.  Heaven could reward me in no more wonderful
manner than to let it help in the rescue of little Lorna--why did I not
think of it sooner?"

"What shall we do, father?" breathlessly cried Mary.

"Can I help, Mr. Barton?"

"Describe the arrangement of the offices."

Mary rapidly limned the plan of the headquarters of the Purity League.
Her father nodded and his lips moved as he repeated her words in a
whisper.

"I have it now.  You must put the instrument under the telephone
switchboard table," he directed.  "Pile up a waste-basket, or something
that is handy to keep it out of view.  I have already adjusted enough
fresh cylinders to record at least one hour of conversation.  This
machine is run by an automatic spring, which you must wind like a
clock.  Here I will wind it myself to have all in readiness."

He rolled his chair swiftly to his work table, and turned the little
crank, continuing his plan of attack.

"Now, take the long wire, and run it through the door of the private
office up close to the desk.  Attach this disc to the dictagraph
receiver.  It is so small, and the wiring so fine that it will not be
noticed if it is done correctly.  Here, Burke.  I will do it now to
this loose dictagraph receiver.  Watch me."

The old man worked swiftly.

Burke scrutinized each move, and nodded in understanding.

"Be careful to cover the wire along the floor with a rug--he must never
be allowed to see that, you know.  After you have all this prepared,
Mary, you must start the mechanism going, and then get the reproduction
of the conversation as it comes on the dictagraph."

"All right, father--but how shall we get it there without Mr. Trubus
knowing about it?  He is very watchful of that room."

Barton patted Bobbie's broad shoulder, with a confident smile.

"I think Officer 4434 can devise a way for that.  He has had harder
tasks and won out.  Now, hurry down with the machine.  It is a bit
heavy.  You had better take it in a taxicab.  You will spend all your
money on taxicabs, my boy, I am afraid."

"Well, sir, a little money now isn't important enough to worry about if
it means happiness for the future--for us all."

Mary's face reddened, and she dropped her eyes.  There was an
understanding between the three which needed no words for explanation.
So it is that the sweetest love creeps into its final nestling place.

"God bless you, my boy.  I'm an old man and none too good, but I shall
pray for your success."

"Good bye," said Bobbie, as he and Mary left with the mechanism.

Bobbie stopped the taxicab which carried them half a block east of the
office building which was their goal.

"Mary, I will take this machine up on the floor above Trubus' office,
and hide it in the hall.  Then you go to your place in the office and I
will manage a way to draw Mr. Trubus out in a hurry.  We will work
together after that, and spread the electric trap for him."

Mary went direct to the office, where she found Trubus storming about
angrily.

"What do you mean by staying nearly two hours out at luncheon time?" he
cried.  "I am very busy and I want you to be here on duty regularly,
even if my wife did foolishly intercede in your behalf, young woman."

"I am sorry--I became ill, and was delayed.  I will not be late with
you again, sir."

The president of the Purity League retired to his sanctum, slightly
mollified.  Mary had not been at her post long when a messenger came in
with a telegram.

"Mr. Trubus!" he said, shoving the envelope at her.

She signed his book, and knocked at the door.  There was a little
delay, and the worthy man opened it impatiently.  "I do not want to be
interrupted, I am going over my accounts."

She handed him the telegram, and he tore it open hastily.

"What's this?" he muttered in excitement.  Then he went back for his
silk hat, and left, slamming the door of his private office and
carefully locking it.

"I wonder what took him out so quickly?" thought Mary.  But even as she
mused Bobbie Burke came into the outer office, with the precious
machine wrapped in yellow paper.

"What took Trubus out, Bobbie?" she asked, as she helped him arrange
the machine behind the wastebasket, near the telephone switchboard.

"Just a telegram, signed 'Friend,' advising him to watch the men who
came in the front door, downstairs, for ten minutes, but not to visit
Clemm's office.  That will keep him away, and he can't possibly guess
who did it."

"But, look, Bob, he has locked his door with a peculiar key.  If you
force it he will be able to tell."

"I thought he might do as much, Mary.  I wouldn't risk tampering with
the lock.  Instead, I found an empty room on the floor above.  I have a
rope, and I will take the receiver of your father's machine with the
disc, and part of the wiring which I had already cut.  There is no fire
escape from the floor above for some reason.  He will suspect all the
less, then, for he would not think of anyone coming through the
headquarters on the floor below.  I will go down hand over hand, you
shove the wire under the door to me, and I'll attach it.  Then I'll go
up the ladder, and we'll let the dictagraph do its work."

Thus it was accomplished.  Mary covered the machine and its wiring in
the outer office, although several times she had to quit at inopportune
times to answer the telephone, or make a connection.

Burke, from the room above, climbed down hurriedly, adjusted the
instrument as he had been told to do by John Barton.  Then he was out,
barely drawing himself and the rope away from the window view before
Trubus entered.

Mary thought that it was all discovered, but breathed a sigh of relief
when the president opened the door and entered without a remark.

It was lucky for Burke that the day was so warm, for the president had
left the window open when he left, otherwise Burke could not possibly
have carried out his plan so opportunely.

The telephone bell rang.  Mary answered and was greeted by Bob's voice.

"Is it you, Mary?" he exclaimed hurriedly.

"Yes."

"Then start your machine, for I saw this man Shepard go upstairs to the
floor beneath you."

"All right, Bob," said Mary softly.

"When the records are run out, unless I telephone you sooner, call one
of the girls to take your place, tell her you are sick, and smuggle out
the records--don't bother about the machine, we'll get that later.  I
will be downstairs waiting for you."

"Yes.  I understand."

The time dragged horribly, but at last the hour had passed, and Mary
wrapped up the precious wax cylinders and hurried downstairs.

Bob was pacing up and down anxiously.

"Shepard has eluded me.  I was afraid to leave you, and he took an
auto, and disappeared over toward the East Side.  I have telephoned
Captain Sawyer to have a phonograph ready for us.  Come, we'll get over
to the station at once.  I hope your records give us the clue.  If they
don't, I'm afraid the trail is lost."

They hurried to the station house.  In the private office of the
Captain they found that officer waiting with eagerness.

"What's it all about, Bob?" he cried.  "Why this phonograph?"

"It will explain itself, Captain," answered 4434.  "Let's fix these
records in the regular way, and then we will run them in order."

They did so in absolute silence.  The Captain listened, first in
bewilderment, then in great excitement.

"Great snakes!  Where did you get those?  That is a conversation
between a bunch of traffickers.  Listen, they are buying and selling,
making reports and laying out their work for the night."

"Sssh!" cautioned Bob.  "There's something important we want to get."

Suddenly Mary gripped his hand.

"That's Shepard's voice.  I'd never forget it."

They listened.  The man told of the condition of Lorna, mentioning her
by name now.  She had returned to consciousness, and was detained in
the room of a house not five blocks from the police station.

"I'll break her spirit now.  None of this stage talk any more, Clemm,"
droned the voice in the phonograph.  "When I get my whip going she'll
be glad enough to put on the silk dresses.  She screamed and cried a
while ago, but I'm used to that sort of guff."

"Don't mark her up with the whip, Shepard.  That's a weakness of yours,
and makes us lose money.  Go over now and get her ready for to-night.
They want a girl like her for a party up-town to-night.  Get her
scared, and then slip a little cocaine,--that eases 'em up.  Then some
champagne, and it will be easy."

Mary began to sob.  Burke held her hand in his firm manner.

"Don't cry, little girl, we'll attend to her.  Captain Sawyer, this is
a record of a conversation we took on a new machine in the offices of
the Purity League.  It connects with the 'Mercantile' office
downstairs, which is a headquarters for the white slave business.  Now
we know the address of the house where this young girl is kept.  Can I
have the reserves to help me raid it?"

"Ah, can you?  Why, you will lead it my boy.  Run out and order four
machines from that garage next door.  We'll be there in two minutes."

The reserves were summoned from their lounging room with such speed
that Mary was bewildered.

"Oh, may I go along?" she begged.  "I want to be the first to greet my
little sister."

"Yes!" cried Sawyer.  "All out now, boys.  We'll work this on time.  I
know the house.  It has a big back yard, and a fire-escape in the rear.
Half you fellows follow the sergeant, and go to the front--but stay
down by the corner until exactly four-thirty.  Then break into the
front door with axes.  The other half--you men in that second file"
(they were lined up with military precision in the big room of the
station house)--"go with Bob Burke.  I want you to go up over the roof.
Use your night sticks if there is any gun play, shoot--but not to kill,
for we want to send these men to prison."

They started off.  Mary's heart fluttered with excitement, with hope.
There was something so reassuring about the husky manhood of these
blue-coats and the nonchalance and even delight with which they faced
the dangers before them.

"Can I go in with them?" she cried eagerly.

"No, young lady, you stay with the sergeant, and sit in the automobile
when the men leave it.  You're apt to get shot, and we want you to take
care of your sister."

They were off on the race to save Lorna!

Now the machines sped down the street.  They separated at one
thoroughfare, and the men with Burke went down another street to
approach the house from the rear.  This they did, quietly but rapidly,
through the basement of an old house whose frightened tenants feared
that they were to be arrested and lynched on the spot, to judge from
their terror.

"Keep quiet," said Burke, "and don't look out of the windows, or we
will arrest you."

Burke and his men peered at the building which was the object of their
attack.  The fire escape came only down to the second story.

"Well, you fellows will have to give me a boost, and I'll jump for the
lower rungs.  Then toss up one more man and I'll catch his hand.  We
can go up together.  You watch the doors."

At exactly four thirty they dashed across the yard, scrambled over the
fence, and like Zouaves in an exhibition drill, tossed Burke up to the
lowest iron bar of the fire escape.  He failed the first time.  He
tumbled back upon them.  The second time was successful.  Patrolman
White was given a lift and Burke helped to pull him upon the
fire-escape.

"Up, now, White!  We will be behind the other fellows in the front!"

They lost not a second.  It was an ape-like climb, but the two trained
athletes made it in surprising time.

As they reached the top of the building a man scrambled out of the trap
which led from the skylight.

"Grab him," yelled Burke.

White did so.  This was prisoner number one.

Down the ladder, through the opening Burke went and found himself in a
dingy garret, at the top of a rickety stair-case.  He heard screams.
He descended the steps half a floor and peering from the angle, through
the transom of a room which led from the hall, he saw a fat old woman
standing with her hands on her hips, laughing merrily, while Shepard
was swinging a whip upon the shoulders of a screaming girl.  Her
clothes were half torn from her back, and the whip left a red welt each
time it struck.

Downstairs Burke heard the crashing of breaking doors.  The raid was
progressing rapidly.  Burke dashed down to the floor level and flung
himself upon the locked door.  The first lunge cracked the lock.  The
second swung the door back on its hinges.

He half fell into the room.

As he did so Lorna Barton saw him and in a flash of recognition,
screamed: "Oh, save me, Mr. Burke!"

She staggered forward, and Shepard missed his aim, striking the fat
woman who squealed with pain.

"I've got _you_ now!" cried Burke, rushing for the ruffian with his
stick.

"No, you haven't!" hissed Shepard, a fighting animal to the last.  He
had whipped out a magazine gun from his coat pocket, and began firing
point-blank.  Burke threw his stick at the man, but it went wild.

His own revolver was out now, and he sent a bullet into the fellow's
shoulder.

Shepard's left arm dropped limply.  He dashed toward the door and
forced his way past, firing wildly at such close range that it almost
burst the gallant policeman's ear drums.

Up the ladder he scurried like a wild animal, firing as he climbed.

Burke was right behind him.

Shepard ran for the fire-escape.  Burke was after him.  Each man was
wasting bullets.  But as Shepard reached the edge of the roof Burke
took the most deliberate aim of his life, and sent a bullet into the
villain's breast.

Shepard gasped, his hands went up, and he toppled over the cornice to
the back yard below.

He died as he had lived, with a curse on his lip, murder in his heart,
and battling like a beast!




CHAPTER XV

THE FINISH

Burke rushed down the dilapidated steps once more to the room where
Lorna had undergone her bitter punishment.  Already three bluecoats had
entered in time to capture the frantic old woman, while they worked to
bring the miserable girl back to consciousness.

"She's coming around all right, Burke," said the sergeant.  "Help me
carry her downstairs."

"I'll do that myself," quoth Bobbie, feeling that the privilege of
restoring her to Mary had been rightfully earned.  He picked her up and
tenderly lifted her from the couch where she had been placed by the
sergeant.  Down the stairs they went with their prisoner, while
Patrolman White descended from the roof with his captive, whose hands
had been shackled behind his back.

The house had the appearance of a cheap lodging place, and the dirty
carpet of the hall showed hard usage.  As they reached the lower floor
Bobbie noticed Captain Sawyer rummaging through an imitation mahogany
desk in the converted parlor, a room furnished much after the fashion
of the bedroom of Madame Blanche in the house uptown.

"What sort of place is it?  A headquarters for the gang?" asked Bobbie,
as he hesitated with Lorna in his arms.

"No, just the same kind of joint we've raided so many times, and we've
got hundreds more to raid," answered Sawyer.  "I've found the receipts
for the rent here, and they've been paying about five times what it is
worth.  The man who owns this house is your friend Trubus.  This links
him up once more.  There's a lot of information in this desk.  But
hurry with the girl, Bobbie, for her sister is nearly wild."

As Burke marched down the steps, carrying the rescued one, a big crowd
of jostling spectators raised a howl of "bravos" for the gallant
bluecoat.  The nature of this evil establishment was well enough known
in the neighborhood, but people of that part of town knew well enough
to keep their information from the police, for the integrity of their
own skins.

Mary had been kept inside the automobile with difficulty; now she
screamed with joy and sprang from the step to the street.  Up the stone
stairs she rushed, throwing her arms about Lorna, who greeted her with
a wan smile; she had strength for no more evidence of recognition.

"Here, chief," said the chauffeur of the hired car to Burke, "I always
have this handy in my machine.  Give the lady a drink--it'll help her."

He had drawn forth a brandy flask, and Burke quickly unscrewed the
cup-cap, to pour out a libation.

"Oh, no!" moaned Lorna, objecting weakly, but Burke forced it between
her teeth.  The burning liquid roused her energies and, with Mary's
assistance, she was able to sit up in the rear of the auto.

"Take another, lady," volunteered the chauffeur.  "It'll do you good."

"Never.  I've tasted the last liquor that shall ever pass my lips,"
said Lorna.  "Oh, Mary, what a horrible lesson I've learned!"

Her sister comforted her, and turned toward Burke pleadingly.

"Can I take her home, Bob?  You know how anxious father is?"

Captain Sawyer had come to the side of the automobile.  He nodded.

"Yes, Miss Barton, the chauffeur will take her right up to your house.
Give her some medical attention at once, and be ready to come back with
her to the station house as soon as I send for you.  I'm going to get
the ringleader of this gang in my net before the day is through.  So
your sister should be here if she is strong enough to press the first
complaint.  I'll attend to the others, with the Federal Government and
those phonograph records back of me!  Hurry up, now."

He turned to his sergeant.

"Put these prisoners in the other automobile and call out the men to
clear this mob away from the streets.  Keep the house watched by one
man outside and one in the rear.  We don't know what might be done to
destroy some of this evidence."

The automobile containing the two girls started on the glad homeward
journey at the Captain's signal.  Bobbie waved his hat and the happy
tears coursed down his face.

"Well, Captain, I've got to face a serious investigation now," he said
to his superior as they went up the steps once more.

"What is it?" exclaimed Sawyer in surprise, "You'll be a medal of honor
man, my boy."

"I've killed a man."

"You have!  Well, tell me about your end of the raid.  All this has
happened so quickly that we must get the report ready right here on the
spot, in order to have it exact."

"This man Shepard, who seems to be the professional whipper of this
gang, as well as a procurer, fought me with a magazine revolver.  I ran
him up to the roof, and I had to shoot him or be killed myself.  That
means a trial, I know.  You'll find his body back of the house, for he
fell off the roof at the end."

"Self-defense and carrying out the law will cover you, my boy.  Don't
worry about that.  This city has been kept terror-stricken by these
gangsters long enough, because honest citizens have been compelled by a
ward politician's law to go without weapons of defense.  A man is not
allowed to have a revolver in his own home without paying ten dollars a
year as a license fee.  But a crook can carry an arsenal; I've always
had a sneaking opinion that there were two sides to the reasons for
that law.  Then the city officials have given the public the idea that
the police were brutes, and have reprimanded us for using force with
these murderers and robbers.  Force is the only thing that will tame
these beasts of the jungle.  You can't do it with kisses and boxes of
candy!"

Burke was rubbing his left forearm.

"By Jingo!  I believe I hurt myself."

He rolled up his sleeve, and saw a furrow of red in his muscular
forearm.  It was bleeding, but as he wiped it with his handkerchief he
was relieved to find that it was a mere flesh wound.

"If Shepard had hit the right instead of the left--I would have been
left in the discard," he said, with grim humor.  "Can you help me tie
it up for now.  This means another scolding from Doctor MacFarland, I
suppose."

"It means that you've more evidence of the need for putting a tiger out
of danger!"

The coroner was called, and the statements of the policemen were made.
The Captain, with Burke and several men, deployed through the back yard
to the other house, leaving the grewsome duty of removing the body to
the coroner.  The two waiting automobiles on the rear street were
crowded with policemen, as Sawyer ordered the chauffeur to drive
speedily to the headquarters of the Purity League.

"We must clean out that hole, as we did this one!" muttered Sawyer.
"You go for Trubus, Burke, with one of the men, while I will take the
rest and close in on their 'Mercantile' office downstairs.  We'll put
that slave market out of business in three minutes."

They were soon on Fifth Avenue.  The elevators carried the policemen up
to the third floor, and they sprang into the offices of the "Mercantile
Association" with little ado.

The small, wan man who sat at the desk was just in the act of sniffing
a cheering potion of cocaine as the head of Captain Sawyer appeared
through the door.  With a quick movement the lookout pressed two
buttons.  One of them resulted in a metallic click in the door of the
strong iron grating.  The other rang a warning bell inside the private
office of John Clemm.

Sawyer pushed and shoved at the grilled barrier, but it was safely
locked with a strong, secret bolt.

"Open this, or I'll shoot!" exclaimed the irate Captain.

"You can't get in there.  We're a lawful business concern," replied the
little man, squirming toward the door which led to the big waiting
room.  "Where's your search warrant.  I know the law, and you police
can't fool me."

"This is my search warrant!" exclaimed Sawyer, as he sent a bullet
crashing into the wall, purposely aiming a foot above the lookout's
head.  "Quick, open this door.  The next shot won't miss!"

There was a sound of overturned chairs and cries of alarm inside the
door.  The little man felt that he had sounded his warning and lived up
to his duty.  Had he completed that sniffing of the "koke," he would
doubtless have been stimulated to enough pseudo-courage to face the
entire Police Department single-handed--as long as the thrill of the
drug lasted.  A majority of the desperate deeds performed by the
criminals in New York, so medical examinations have proved, are carried
on under the stimulus of this fearful poison, which can be obtained
with comparative ease throughout the city.

But the lookout was deprived of his drug.  He even endeavored to take a
sniff as the captain and his men shoved and shook the iron work of the
grating.

"Drop it!" cried Sawyer, pulling the trigger again and burying another
bullet in the plaster.

"Oh, oh!  Don't shoot!" cried the lookout weakly.  He trembled as he
advanced to the grating and removed the emergency bolt.

"Grab him!" cried Sawyer to one of his men.  "Come with me, fellows."
He rushed into the waiting room.  There consternation reigned.  Fully a
dozen pensioners of the "system" of traffic in souls were struggling to
escape through the barred windows in the rear.  These bars had been
placed as they were to resist the invaders from the outside.  John
Clemm's system of defense was extremely ingenious.  In time of trouble
he had not deemed the inmates of the middle room worth protecting--his
purpose was to exclude with the iron grating and the barred windows the
possible entry of raiders.

Three revolvers were on the floor.  Their owners had wisely discarded
them to avoid the penalty of the concealed weapon law, for they had
realized that they were trapped.

"Open that door!" cried Sawyer, who had learned the arrangement of the
rooms from Burke's description.

Two men pushed at the door, which was securely locked.  They finally
caught up the nearest church pew, and, using it as a battering ram,
they succeeded in smashing the heavy oaken panels.  The door had been
barricaded with a cross bar.  As they cautiously peered in through the
forced opening they saw the room empty and the window open.

"He's escaped!" exclaimed Sawyer.

Just then a call from the outer vestibule reached his ears.

"I've caught the go-between, Captain.  Here's Mr. John Clemm, the
executive genius of this establishment," sung out Burke, who was
standing inside the door with the rueful fat man wearing the handcuffs.

"Where did you get him, Burke?"

"He tried to make a quiet getaway through the rescue department of the
Purity League," answered Officer 4434.  "I nabbed him as he came up the
fire-escape from this floor."

"Where is Trubus?"

"He has gone home, so one of the stenographers tells me."

"Then we will get him, too.  Hurry now.  White, I leave you in charge
of this place.  Send for the wagon and take these men over to our
station house.  Get every bit of paper and the records.  We had better
look around in that private office first before we go after Trubus."

They finished the demolition of the door and entered.

"What's this arrangement?" queried Sawyer, puzzled, as he looked at the
automatic pencil box.

"That is an arrangement by which this fellow Clemm has been making
duplicates of all his transactions in his own writing," explained
Burke.  "You see this Trubus has trusted no one.  He has a definite
record of every deal spread out before him by the other pencil on the
machine upstairs, just as this go-between writes it out.  Then here is
the dictagraph, under the desk."

Burke pointed out the small transmitting disc to the surprised captain.

"Well, this man learned a lot from the detectives and applied it to his
trade very scientifically, didn't he?"

"Yes, the records we have on the phonograph show that every word which
passed in this room was received upstairs by Trubus.  No one but Clemm
knew of his connection or ownership of the establishment.  Yet Trubus,
all the time that he was posing as the guardian angel of virtue, has
been familiar with the work of every procurer and every purchaser; it's
a wonderful system.  If he had spent as much energy on doing the
charitable work that he pretended to do, think of how much misery and
sickness he could have cured."

"Well, Burke, it's the same game that a lot of politicians on the East
Side do.  They own big interests and the gambling privileges in the
saloons, and they get their graft from the gangsters.  Then about twice
a year they give a picnic for the mothers and babies of the drunkards
who patronize their saloons.  They send a ticket for a bucket of coal
or a pair of shoes to the parents of young girls who work for the
gangsters and bring the profits of shame back tenfold on the investment
to these same politicians.  They will spend a hundred dollars on
charity and the newspapers will run columns about it.  But the poor
devils who cheer them and vote for them don't realize that every dollar
of graft comes, not out of the pockets of property owners and
employers, but from reduced wages, increased rents, and expensive,
rotten food.  Trubus would have been a great Alderman or State Senator:
he wasted his talents on religion."

Burke turned to the door.

"Shall I go up to his house, Captain?  I'd like to be in at the finish
of this whole fight."

"You bet you can," said Sawyer.  "It's now nearly six o'clock, and we
will jump into the machine and get up there before he can get out to
supper.  The men will take care of these prisoners."

After a few skillful orders, Sawyer led the way downstairs.  They were
soon speeding up to the Riverside Drive residence of the
philanthropist, Sawyer and Burke enjoying the machine to themselves.

"This is a joy ride that will not be so joyful for one man on the
return trip, Burke!" exclaimed Sawyer, as he took off his cap to mop
the perspiration from his brow.  He had been through a strenuous
afternoon and was beginning to feel the strain.

"How shall we approach his house?" asked Burke.

"You get out of the machine and go to the door.  There's no need of
alarming his family.  Just tell the servant who answers the door that
you want to speak to the boss--say that there's been a robbery down at
his office, and you want to speak to him privately.  Tell the servant
not to let the other members of the family know about it, as it would
worry them."

"That's a good idea, Captain.  I understand that his wife and daughter
are very fine women.  It will save a terrible scene.  What a shame to
make them suffer like this!"

"Yes, Burke.  If these scoundrels only realized that their work always
made some good woman suffer--sometimes a hundred.  Think of the women
that this villain has made to suffer, body and soul.  Think of the
mothers' hearts he has broken while posing with his charity and his
Bible!  All that wickedness is to be punished on his own wife and his
own daughter.  I tell you, there's something in life which brings back
the sins of the fathers, all right, upon their children.  The Good Book
certainly tells it right."

The auto was stopped before the handsome residence of the Purity
League's leader.  It seemed a bitter tangle of Fate that in these
beautiful surroundings, with the broad blue Hudson River a few hundred
yards away, the green of the park trees, the happy throng of
pedestrians strolling and chatting along the promenade of the Drive, it
should be Burke's duty to drag to punishment as foul a scoundrel as
ever drew the breath of the beautiful spring air.  The sun was setting
in the heights of Jersey, across the Hudson, and the golden light
tinted the carved stone doorway of Trubus's home, making Burke feel as
though he were acting in some stage drama, rather than real life.  The
spotlight of Old Sol was on him as he rang the bell by the entry.

"Is Mr. Trubus home?" asked Burke of the portly butler who answered the
summons.

"Hi don't know, sir," responded the servant, in a conventional
monotone.  "What nyme, sir?"

"Just tell him that it is a policeman.  His office has been robbed, and
we want to get some particulars about it."

"Well, sir, he's dressing for dinner, sir.  You'll 'ave to wyte, sir.
Hi wouldn't dare disturb 'im now, sir."

"You had better dare.  This is very important to him.  But don't
mention it to anyone else, for it would worry his wife and daughter."

As Burke was speaking, a big fashionable car drew up behind the one in
which Captain Sawyer sat, awaiting developments.  A young man, wearing
a light overcoat, whose open fold displayed a dinner coat, descended
and approached the door.

"What's the trouble here?" he curtly inquired.

"None of your business," snapped Burke, who recognized the fiance,
Ralph Gresham.

"Don't you sauce me--I'll find out myself."

The butler bowed as Gresham approached.

"Come in, sir.  Miss Trubus is hexpecting you, sir.  This person is
wyting to see Mr. Trubus, sir."

Gresham, with an angry look at the calm policeman, went inside.

The door shut.  Burke for a minute regretted that he had not insisted
on admission.  It might have been possible for Trubus to have received
some sort of warning.  The "best-laid plans of mice and men" had one
bad habit, as Burke recollected, just at the moment when success was
apparently within grasp.

But the door opened again.  The smug countenance, the neatly brushed
"mutton-chops," the immaculate dinner coat of William Trubus appeared,
and Bobbie looked up into the angry glint of the gentleman's black eyes.

"What do you mean by annoying me here?  Why didn't you telephone me?"
began the owner of the mansion.  "I am just going out to dinner."

He looked sharply at Burke, vaguely remembering the face of the young
officer.  Bobbie quietly stepped to his side and caught the knob of the
big door, shutting it softly behind Trubus.

"Why, you...."

Before he could finish Burke had deftly clipped one handcuff on the
right wrist of the man and with an unexpected movement pinioned the
other, snapping the manacle as he did so.

"Outrageous!" exclaimed the astounded Trubus.  But Burke was dragging
him rapidly into the car.

"If you don't want your wife to know about this, get in quickly,"
commanded Sawyer sharply.

Trubus began to expostulate, but his thick lips quivered with emotion.

"Down to the station house, quick!" ordered the captain to the
chauffeur.  "No speed limit."

"I'll have you discharged from the force for this, you scoundrel!"
Trubus finally found words to say.  "Where is your warrant for my
arrest?  What is your charge?"

Sawyer did not answer.

As they reached a subway station he called out to the driver:

"Stop a minute.  Now, Burke, you had better go uptown and get the
witness; hurry right down, for I want to end this matter to-night."

Bobbie dismounted, while Trubus stormed in vain.  As the car sped
onward he saw the president of the Purity League indulging in language
quite alien to the Scriptural quotations which were his usual stock in
discourse.  Captain Sawyer was puffing a cigar and watching the throng
on the sidewalks as though he were stone deaf.

Burke hurried to the Barton home.  There he found a scene of joy which
beggared description.  Lorna had recovered and was strong enough to run
to greet him.

"Oh, Mr. Burke, can you ever forgive me for my silliness and ugly
words?" she began, as Mary caught the officer's hand with a welcome
clasp.

"There, there, Miss Lorna, I've nothing to forgive.  I'm so happy that
you have come out safe and sound from the dangers of these men,"
answered Burke.  "We have trapped the gang, even up to Trubus, and, if
you are strong enough to go down to the station, we will have him sent
with the rest of his crew to the Tombs to await trial."

Old Barton reached for Burke's hand.

"My boy, you have been more than a friend to me on this terrible yet
wonderful day.  You could have done no more if you had been my own son."

The excitement and his own tense nerves drove Bobbie to a speech which
he had been pondering and hesitating to make for several weeks.  He
blurted it out now, intensely surprised at his own temerity.

"Your own son, Mr. Barton....  Oh, how I wish I were....  And I hope
that I may be some day, if you and some one else are willing ... some
day when I have saved enough to provide the right sort of a home."

He hesitated, and Lorna stepped back.  Mary held out her hands, and her
eyes glowed with that glorious dilation which only comes once in a
life-time to one woman's glance for only one man's answering look.

She held out her hands as she approached him.

"Oh, Bob ... as though you had to ask!" was all she said, as the strong
arms caught her in their first embrace.  Her face was wet with tears as
Bob drew back from their first kiss.

John Barton was wiping his eyes as Burke looked at him in happy
bewilderment at this curious turn to his fortune.

"My boy, Bob," began the old man softly, "would you take the
responsibility of a wife, earning no more money than a policeman can?"

Bob nodded.  "I'd do it and give up everything in the world to make her
happy if it were enough to satisfy her," he asserted.

Barton lifted up a letter which had been lying on the table beside him.
He smiled as he read from it:


"DEAR MR. BARTON:

"The patents have gone through in great shape and they are so basic
that no one can fight you on them.  The Gresham Company has offered me,
as your attorney, fifty thousand dollars as an advance royalty, and a
contract for your salary as superintendent for their manufacture.  We
can get even more.  It may interest you to know that your friend on the
police force won't have to worry about a raise in salary.  I have been
working on his case with a lawyer in Decatur, Illinois.  His uncle is
willing to make a payment of twenty-four thousand dollars to prevent
being prosecuted for misappropriation of funds on that estate.  I will
see you...."


Barton dropped the letter to his lap.

"Now, how does that news strike you?"

"I can't believe it real," gasped Burke, rubbing his forehead.  "But I
am more glad for you than for myself.  You will have an immense
fortune, won't you?"

Smiling into the faces of the two radiant girls, Old Barton drew Lorna
to his side and, reaching forward, tugged at the hand of Mary.

"In my two dear girls, safe and happy, I have a greater wealth for my
old age than the National City Bank could pay me, Burke.  Lorna has
told me of her experience and her escape when all escape seemed
hopeless.  She has learned that the sensual pleasures of one side of
New York's glittering life are dross and death.  In the books and silly
plays she has read and seen it was pictured as being all song and
jollity.  Now she knows how sordid and bitter is the draught which can
only end, like all poison, in one thing.  God bless you, my boy, and
you, my girls!"

Bobbie shook the old man's hand, and then remembered the unpleasant
duty still before him.

"We must get down town as soon as possible," syd he.  "Come, won't you
go with us, Mary?"

The two girls put on their hats and together they traveled to the
distant police station as rapidly as possible.  It was a bitter ordeal
for Lorna, whose strength was nearly exhausted.  The welts on her
shoulders from Shepard's whip brought the tears to her eyes.  As they
reached the station house the girl became faint.  The matron and Mary
had to chafe her hands and apply other homely remedies to keep her up
for the task of identifying the woman who had been captured.

"Now, Burke," began Sawyer, "I have been saving Trubus for a surprise.
He has been locked up in my private office, and still doesn't know
exactly how we have caught him.  I've broken the letter of the rules by
forbidding him to telephone anyone until you came.  I guess it is
important enough, in view of our discovery, for me to have done
this--he can call up his lawyer as soon as we have confronted him with
Clemm and this young girl.  Bring me the phonograph records."

They went into his private office, where White was guarding Trubus.

"How much longer am I to be subject to these Russian police methods?"
demanded Trubus, with an oath.

"Quiet, now, Mr. Purity League," said Sawyer, "we are going to have
ladies present.  You will soon be allowed to talk all you want.  But I
warn you in advance that everything you say will be used as evidence
against you."

"Against me--me, the leading charity worker of our city!" snorted
Trubus, but he watched the door uneasily.

"Bring in the young ladies, Burke," directed Captain Sawyer.

Bobbie returned with Mary and Lorna.  Trubus started perceptibly as he
observed the new telephone girl whom his wife had induced him to employ
that day.

Sawyer nodded again to Burke.

"Now the go-between."  He turned to Mary.  "Do you know this man, Miss
Barton?"

The name had a strangely familiar sound to Trubus.  He wondered
uneasily.

"He is William Trubus, president of the Purity League.  I worked for
him to-day."

"Do you recognize this man?" was queried, as Clemm shuffled forward,
with the assistance of Burke's sturdy push.

"This is the one who was embracing the other telephone girl.  But he
did not stay there long.  I never saw him before that, to my
recollection."

"What do you know about this man, Officer 4434?" asked the captain.
Clemm fumbled with his handcuffs, looking down in a sheepish way to
avoid the malevolent looks of Trubus.

"He is known as John Clemm, although we have found a police record of
him under a dozen different aliases.  He formerly ran a gambling house,
and at different times has been involved in bunco game and wire-tapping
tricks.  He is one of the cleverest crooks in New York.  In the present
case he has been the go-between for this man Trubus, who, posing as a
reformer to cover his activities, has kept in touch with the work of
the Vice Trust, managed by Clemm.  They had a dictagraph and a
mechanical pencil register which connected Trubus's office with
Clemm's."

"It's a lie!" shouted Trubus, furiously.  "Some of these degraded
criminals are drawing my famous and honored name into this case to
protect themselves.  It is a police scheme for notoriety."

"You'll get the notoriety," retorted Sawyer.  "There is a young man who
is taking notes for the biggest paper in New York.  He has verified
every detail.  They'll have extras on the streets in fifteen minutes,
for this is the biggest story in years.  You are cornered at last,
Trubus.  Send in the rest of those people arrested in that house owned
by Trubus."  The woman was brought in with the others of the gang who
had been apprehended in the old house.

[Illustration: The pretended philanthropist was cornered at last.]

"Now, Mr. Trubus, this woman rented from you and paid a very high
rental.  The man Shepard was killed in resisting arrest.  We have
rounded up Baxter, Craig, Madame Blanche and a dozen others of your
employees.  Have you anything to say?"

Trubus whirled around and would have struck Clemm had not White
intervened.

"You squealer!  You've betrayed me!"

"No, I didn't!" cried Clemm, shrinking back.  "I swear I didn't!"

Sawyer reached for the phonograph records and held them up with a
laconic smile.

"There's no use in accusing anyone else, Trubus.  You're your own worst
enemy, for these records, with your own dictagraph as the chief
assistant prosecutor, have trapped you."

Trubus raised his hands in terror and his iron nerve gave way
completely.

"Oh, my God!" he cried.  "What will my wife and daughter think?"

"You should have figured that out when you started all this," retorted
Sawyer.  "Take them into the cells, and we'll have them arraigned at
Night Court.  Make out the full reports now, men."

The prisoners were led out.

Trubus turned and begged with Sawyer for a little time.

"Let me tell my wife," he pleaded.  "I don't want any one else to do
it."

"You stay just where you are, until I am through with you.  You're
getting war methods now, Trubus--after waging war from ambush for all
this time.  Burke, you had better have the young ladies taken home.  Go
up with them.  Use the automobile outside.  You can have the evening
off as soon as we get through the arraignment at court."

It took an hour before the first charges could be brought to the
Magistrate, through whose hands all cases must first be carried.  The
sisters decided to stay and end their first ordeal with what testimony
was desired.  This was sufficient for the starting of the wheels of
justice.  Trubus had called up his lawyer, who was on hand with the
usual objections and instructions.  But he was held over until the day
court, without bail.

"Only let me go home, and break the news to my wife and daughter,"
begged the subdued man.  "Oh, I beg that one privilege."

The judge looked at Captain Sawyer, who nodded.

"I will send a couple of men up with him, your honor.  I understand his
wife is a very estimable lady.  It will be a bitter blow to her."

"All right.  You will have to go in the custody of the police.  But I
will not release you on bail."

Bobbie and the girls had already sped on their way to the happy Barton
home.  Trubus, under the watchful eyes of two policemen and with his
lawyer, lost no time in returning to his mansion.

As he rang the bell the butler hurried to the door in a frightened
manner.

"It can't be true, sir, wot the pypers say, can it?" he gasped.  But
Trubus forced his way past, followed by the attorney and his two guards.

In the beautiful drawing-room he saw two maids leaning over the
Oriental couch.  They were trying to quiet his daughter.

"Why, Sylvia, my child," he cried.

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed the girl, forcing herself free from the restraining
hands of the servants.  She laughed shrilly as she staggered toward her
father.  Her eyes were wide and staring with the light of madness.
"Here's father!  Dear father!"

Trubus paled, but caught her in his arms.

"My poor dear," he began.

"Oh, look, father, what it says in the papers.  We missed you--ha,
ha!--and the newsboys sold us this on the street.  Look, father,
there's your picture.  He, he!  And Ralph bought it and brought it to
me."

She staggered and sank half-drooping in his arms.  Her head rolled back
and her eyes stared wildly at the ceiling.  Her mad laughter rang out
shrilly, piercing the ears of her miserable father.  The two policemen
and the lawyer watched the uncanny scene.

"Ha, ha!  Ralph read it, and he's gone.  He wouldn't marry me now, he
said,--ha, ha!  Father!  Who cares?  Oh, it's so funny!"  She broke
from her father's hold and ran into the big dining room, pursued by the
sobbing maids.

"She's gone crazy as a loon," whispered one of the policemen to the
other.

"Where is my wife?" timidly asked Trubus, as he supported himself with
one hand on a table near the door.  The frightened butler, with
choleric red face, pointed upward.

Trubus drew himself up and started for the broad stairway.

Just then a revolver shot smote the ears of the excited men.  It came
from above.

"Great God!" uttered Trubus, clasping his hand to his heart.  He ran
for the stairs, followed by the two patrolmen, while the lawyer sank
weakly into a chair and buried his face in his hands.  He guessed only
too well what had happened.

The policemen were slower than the panic-stricken Trubus.

They found him in his magnificent boudoir, kneeling and sobbing by the
side of his dead wife; a revolver had fallen to the floor from her limp
hand.  It was still smoking.  The exquisite lace coverlet was even now
drinking up the red stains, and the bluecoats stopped at the doorway,
dropping their heads as they instinctively doffed their caps.

Gruff Roundsman Murphy crossed himself, while White wiped his eyes with
the back of his hand.  He remembered a verse from the old days when he
went to Sunday-school in the Jersey town where he was born.

"'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord."

      *      *      *      *      *

The blossoms of late May were tinting the greensward beneath the trees
of Central Park as Bobbie Burke and Mary strolled along one of the
winding paths.  They had just walked up the Avenue from their last
shopping expedition.

"I hated to bid the boys at the station house good-bye this afternoon,
Mary.  Yet after to-night we'll be away from New York for a wonderful
month in the country.  And then no more police duty, is there?"

"No, Bob.  You and father will be the busiest partners in New York and
you will have to report for duty at our new little apartment every
evening before six.  I'm so glad that you can leave all those dangers,
and gladder still because of my own selfish gratifications.  After
to-night."

"Well, I'm scared of to-night more than I was of that police parade on
May Day, with all that fuss about the medal.  Here I've got to face a
minister, and you know that's not as easy as it seems."

They reached the new home which the advance royalties for old Barton's
days of realization had made possible.  It was a handsome apartment on
Central Park West, and the weeks of preparation had turned it into a
wonderful bower for this night of nights.

"Look, Mary," cried Lorna, as they came in.  "Here are two more
presents.  One must weigh a ton and the other is in this funny old
bandbox."

They opened the big bundle first; it was a silver service of elaborate,
ornate design.  It had cost hundreds of dollars.

On a long paper Bobbie saw the names of a hundred men, all familiar and
memory-stirring.  The list was headed with the simple dedication in the
full, round hand which Burke recognized as that of Captain Sawyer:


"To the Prince of all the Rookies and his Princess, from his brother
cops.  God bless you, Bobbie Burke, and Mrs. Bobbie."


Ex-officer 4434 Burke blinked and hugged his happy fiancee delightedly.

"What's in that old bandbox, Bob?" asked Lorna.  "It's marked
'Glass--Handle with care.'  I wonder how it ever held together.  Some
country fellow left it at the door this afternoon, but wouldn't come
in."

They opened it, and Mary gasped.

"Why, look at the flowers!"

The box seemed full of old-fashioned country blossoms, as Mary dipped
her hand into it.  Then she deftly reached to the bottom of the big
bandbox and lifted its contents.  Wrapped in a sheathing of oiled
tissue paper was a monstrous cake, layer on layer, like a Chinese
pagoda.  It was covered with that rustic triumph of multi- icing
which only grandmothers seem able to compound in these degenerate days
of machine-made pastry of the city bakeries.

A wedding ring of yellow icing was molded in the center, while on
either side were red candy hearts, joined by whirly sugar streamers of
pink and blue.

A card pinned in the center said:

"From Henrietta and Joe."

"That's all we needed," said Mary with a sob in her happy voice, "to
make our wedding supper end right.  Wasn't it, Officer 4434?"




THE END











End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Traffic in Souls, by Eustace Hale Ball

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