Because the lust of the political powers behind the monster Vice is insatiable.
Not because men must submit to these things because unruly passions drive them to shame, misery, remorse and death, as has been fallaciously charged.
These are the subsidiary vices from which millions of dollars are garnered yearly to feed the Directorate of Ten, to put new diamonds on shirt fronts, brighter stones in heavy gold rings, new automobiles to wait for them outside their palaces whose every stone is hewn by the torn, cut and bleeding hands of thousands of women slaves and raised to its place by exhausted weakened and dying creatures.
Graft, graft, graft!
That word sings, echoes and reverberates through the underworld of Chicago. It is the slogan of the Vice Trust. It is the mystic sign of the vice fraternity.
And while the Vice Trust screams like a voice from the last depths of hell:
Graft, more graft!—
The victims lost in the depths of the Inferno echo back:—
Death, and more victims!
Who can really estimate the actual amount of graft reaped from sin which eats into the hearts of a lost and perished womanhood?