Back of a murder, in which some young man of good parentage and of promising hopes figures as the principal, you can read the word “cafe.” It began there, it progressed, until its end meant the gallows in the court yard of the county jail.
STATE STREET AND ITS PITFALLS.
Let us leave the accursed place. We have other places to visit before the sun flares red above the waters of Lake Michigan.
We stroll down Randolph street, through Chicago’s well lighted avenues and its “Rialto” to one of the busiest thoroughfares in the world,—during the day—State street.
The bustling, shoving, pushing, army of men and women, has gone home.
Yet, the street is by no means deserted.
As we walk along we are conscious of the number of unescorted women, walking the main loop thoroughfare. We mentally comment on it.
They seem to saunter aimlessly about, jauntily swinging their purses, and looking up into your face in a questioning, puzzling manner.
Would you know the hideous truth?