mustache, and a piercing black eye. He shakes hands around as if we were obedient subjects come to pay homage to a king. He evidently enjoys his notoriety. "I had a chat with an old detective, who says to me about McGlory: 'He is a Fourth-warder by birth. He has a big pull in politics, but takes no direct part himself. He pays his way with the police, and that ends it. I have known him for years, and 'tough' as he is, I would take his word as quick as I would take the note of half the bank presidents of New York. His place is in the heart of a tenement region, where there are a great many unmarried men. Grouped around him are the rooms and haunts of hundreds of prostitutes, with their pimps, thieves and pick-pockets who thrive in such atmosphere. His place is head-quarters for them. These can not be suppressed, and it is part of the police policy to leave a few places like McGlory's where you can lay your hands on a man at any time, rather than scatter them indiscriminately over the city.' "We go out on Hester street. It is a narrow, dirty, filthy street. It is the early morning--five o'clock. We had spent nearly five hours in the den. The air was reeking with the filthy odors of the night, but it was refreshing compared with the atmosphere we had left. "We get in our carriage to go home. "Three or four blocks up-town we pass Cooper Institute and the old Mercantile Library. A stone's throw from McGlory's are the great thoroughfares of the Bowery and Broadway. You could stand on his house-top and shoot a bullet into the City of Churches. I have not told the half, no, nor the tenth, of what we saw at his place. It can not be told. There is no newspaper would dare print it. There is no writer who could present it in shape for publication. It can only be hinted at. There is beastliness and depravity under his roof compared with which no chapter in the world's history is equal. "Involuntarily, when I reached my apartment, I turned into the bath-room and bathed my face and hands. It was like getting a breath of heaven after experiencing a foretaste of sheol." CHAPTER XXIII. OUR WASTE BASKET. _Contemporaneous Records and Memoranda of Interesting Cases._ *Miss Ruff's Tribulations.*