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.