Manning and his companion stood for some time gazing at the scenes around them.  The detective’s mind was busy with somber meditations upon the human degradation that was here presented.  Here were women, many of them still youthful and with marks of beauty still remaining, in spite of their life of dissipation.  Their eyes were flashing under the influence of intoxication, and from their pretty lips were issuing blasphemies which made him shudder.  Old women, with a long record of shame and immorality behind them, and with their bold faces covered with cosmetics to hide the ravages of time.  Rough men, with their flannel shirts and their trousers tucked into their high, mud-covered boots.  Young men of the city, dressed well and apparently respectable, yet all yielding to their passion for strong drink and the charms of lewdness and indecency.  A strange, wild gathering of all grades and conditions, mingling in a disgraceful orgie which the pen refuses to depict.  How many stories of happy homes wrecked and broken could be related by these painted lizards who now were swimming in this whirlpool of licentious gratification!  How many men, whose past careers of honor and reputation had been thrown away, were here gathered in this brothel, participating in so-called amusements, which a few years ago would have appalled them!  Ah, humanity is a strange study, and debased humanity the strangest and saddest of them all.

[Illustration:  Manning and his companion stood for some time gazing at the scenes around them.]

The detective was aroused from his reflections by the voice of his companion.

“What do you think of this?”

“I scarcely know,” answered Manning, sadly.  “I have seen much of the under-current of social life, but this exceeds anything I have ever before experienced.”

“Oh, this is comparatively nothing,” said the other.  “Pleasure is the ruling spirit now.  You should be here some time when there is a fight, and then you would think that hell was a reality, and these people devils incarnate.”

While they were thus conversing, the proprietor of the establishment, Jerry Taylor, approached them, and respectfully saluting the officer, whom he knew, said smilingly: 

“Seein’ the sights of the city, are you, lieutenant?”

“Well, yes, Jerry; that’s part of our business.  But we are looking for a young man who was here a few days ago, and perhaps you can help us?”

“Well, if I can do anything for you I will,” answered Jerry, who was a tall, broad-shouldered, black-haired man, with flashing black eyes and a somber mustache, which trailed below his chin.  “Come over into the wine-room, where we can talk.  We can’t do it here for the noise.”

Accepting the suggestion, the three men walked across the room, and entering a narrow doorway in one corner, were ushered into an apartment which was designated as the “wine-room.”  This room was occupied by the better dressed portion of the habitues of the place, and their deportment was much more circumspect than those in the larger room outside.  Leading the way to a table in a retired corner of the room, the proprietor requested them to be seated, while Manning called for the services of one of the waiter girls in providing for their liquid nourishment.