Wednesday passed. Thursday, Friday and Sunday came with no response. At the newspaper offices the publishers said there were more than 200 letters awaiting the pleasure of the woman who wanted a "traveling companion." Yet the advertiser neglected to call for her mail.
When convinced that there would be no answer the woman operator went to the Arena to call for Mrs. Schwartz. She was told that there was no such person there.
The wary old spider, bold enough when maneuvering the enslavement of innocent girls, had fled to cover at the first alarm.
"We'll have to give it up," said the detective to the young man. "She's skipped to different quarters. She's scheming out some new bait. Schwartz her real name? She probably has a thousand names. A different alias for every girl she marks as a victim."
Do you want to investigate this story for yourself? Do you want corroborative evidence? The writer of this book has affidavits from the principals as to its truth. The want columns of any great metropolitan daily will supply material for your investigations. Look for the "chorus girls wanted" ads. Look for the "roommates" ads. Peruse the personal advertisements. Look through the column headed "Wanted, Female Help, Miscellaneous." Once in a while you'll read an innocent little paragraph that is sending young virgins to the slaughter pens and the slave marts. Mrs. Schwartz is not the only woman in the business.
[CHAPTER III.]
The Tragedy of the Assignation House.
Her name can be read a quarter of a mile away from the big electric signs in front of a Broadway theater today. A year ago it was emblazoned from the signboards of a Chicago amusement place. A few years before that it was hardly known outside the little Springfield cottage of the maiden lady with whom she made her home. Truth to tell, she doesn't know her real name, and the title she goes by as a theatrical star is the only one she has. For she is an orphan girl and she was taken to rear by the two elderly maiden ladies in Springfield, Illinois, when she was a cooing, gob-gobbing baby in an orphan asylum. But that, as Kipling says, has nothing to do with this narrative.