The girl who escaped made her way to a police station. She was garbed only in a short wrapper that reached barely to her knees. The remainder of her person was bare. Her clothes had been taken from her when she was taken to the place. The police at once raided the place and rescued the other girl. The Chicago police were notified and returned both of them to their parents. Both girls had been horribly treated. Every liberty that can be imagined had been taken with them. They had been forced to do acts beyond comprehension. This is but one actual instance of the methods employed to lure girls to an awful fate, but it tells the story of hundreds. This is but one method whereby the great slave mart of Chicago is kept in operation, sacrificing its thousands of girl to the demon lust. The stage, with all its attractions, can be but the stepping stone to a life of shame, unless the girl is surrounded with every home protection. It leads its victims a merry whirl, a gay, giddy time, while it lasts, but the end is always in sight. The brothel flirts with the stage. It regards it as a needful source of supplies. And the stage, fickle and flighty, lays its innocents on the altar. Its sacrifice yearly in the great metropolis of the west is 1,000 victims a year. CHAPTER VI. THE TRAGEDY OF THE FIVE THOUSAND. It was the cold gray dawn of a late November morning. The scene is laid in the marshy slough far to the north of the buildings of the Dunning poor farm at the north edge of the city of Chicago. In the chill and drizzling rain an aged, bent-shouldered man was digging. The soft, wet mud he tossed in a pile alongside of the hole in which he stood. Finally he slowly clambered out of the pit and surveyed his work. The hole was nearly six feet long and three feet wide. It was about the latter in depth. Suddenly the old man looked up. To the south of him he heard the rumble of a wagon. A few minutes later the rusty gate at the end of the meadow swung creakingly on its hinges. With a rattle and bounce the wagon again started towards him. The wagon was a high boarded affair. On its side could be read the inscription, "City of Chicago," and then the number "321." The vehicle drew up close to the hole. The driver reined in his galloping horses with a jerk at its side. "Hello, Bill. Been waiting long?" yelled the driver to the old man as he jumped from his seat. "Just finished," answered the digger. The driver by this time was busy with the end-gate of his wagon. Letting it down, he pulled at a long box in the vehicle. The box was a hastily constructed affair. It was of plain, unfinished boards. Sticking to the boards were pieces of colored lithographs, as though they had once been part of a dismantled billboard. The top consisted of two heavy planks roughly nailed on. The driver struggled with the box a moment. Then he came around to where the aged man stood. "You've got to help me, Bill. She's a darn heavy one," exclaimed the driver.