From Twentieth street south on Michigan avenue, in sections, and in Wabash avenue and State street, vice reigns openly and supreme. There is no pretense at respectability. Vice has thrown off its masks and flaunts its hideousness, its diseases and its crimes in our faces. It is the Borderland of Hell,--it is the city's death-spot. Similar borderlands are found on the West and North sides. As you look farther south you can count the electric signs flaring over the haunts of vice--they spell saloon, cafe or hotel. They run into the hundreds. The interiors of these cafes are similar to the loop cafe we have described, stripped of its air of hidden sin. Here sin stalks about as the fearless master. The woman who a year ago reveled in the pleasures of a night at some fashionable restaurant with a "friend" may be found drunk and maudlin, vulgarly and cheaply clothed, dropping "dope" into her glass of whiskey to revive her tired brain and body to attract another victim and stave off the wolf of starvation a little while longer. These are the "hangouts" of the women who are going down and down. They have ceased to attempt to appear respectable; they have tired of hiding their shame and infamy; they have torn off the mask and their faces peer leeringly at you and their blue-colored lips seem to cry out in hellish abandon: "I am a damned, lost creature. I sold my birthright. I bartered the body my good mother gave me. I drank to the last lees the glass and I am accursed. Death has placed his seal upon me and I am struggling to cheat him of a few days longer. Life, life, more life!" Here women smoke cigarettes openly, embrace the men they are with, expose their limbs in licentious manner to attract prospective customers. Here a sign is made, and a half drunken waiter brings a half crazed creature sitting alone in the shadows of a pillar, a white powder, which she snuffs. That is cocaine. A majority of the women who live in and about the levee districts of the city, are the slaves of the opium, cocaine and morphine habit, and fourteen per cent, according to a conservative estimate, are yearly sent to the state insane institutions as hopeless victims of drugs. In the "near-levee" cafes we come across a vice-creature, whose type we have not yet encountered in our night tour. Watch that young man, dressed in a stylish, brown suit of clothes, who is talking to the painted unfortunate beside him. His voice rises as he shakes his finger at her. Her hand trembles as she reaches down in her stocking. He curses her and tells her to hurry. Then she gives him a number of bills. "Damn you, you cheap cur; have you quit hustling or have you another man?" he yells at her above the jarring music of a tin-pan piano and the cigarette voice singing to it. "Get out on the street and get some business!" he says to her hoarsely, striking her across the face. Pale and trembling the pitiful creature rises and hurries out into the street to search for more prey.