The street was deserted as they crossed it and stepped close to the
oaken door. It was ajar, and they could see the interior of the dark,
prison-like room. The woman was there bending over a pot that swung on
a crane in the fireplace. A heap of filthy rags was in a corner near
by, and lying there was little Elinor and the strange child Rika. A
sob rose in Warren's throat as he saw his sister, so pale and thin and
terrified she looked. He heard Ivan's breath come sharply.

"Let's rush!" he said.

"You can't!" answered Ivan. "Don't you see the chain on the inside of
the door?"

"It's light, we can break that," answered Warren. "Get yourself
together. When I say three, throw your whole weight. Grab the woman
as quickly as you can."

"All right," said Ivan.

Warren stepped back a space and held himself for a spring.

"One, two," he counted slowly. "Three" was never uttered. He heard a
strange cry from Ivan; and as he did so, a frightful blow from some
heavy, blunt instrument struck him squarely. He crumpled down
unconscious.

Ivan, behind him, evaded the blow aimed at his head by the second
ruffian, and quick as a panther stood back to the wall, gazing at his
assailant.