Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1916)

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S8 Photoplay Magazine Aw. perately against the attempts of a man to drag her through a doorway. Quickly overpowering the man. he demanded an explanation. "What business is it of yours?" the man snarled. "I am Judge Evans of the Women's Night Court. I believe you are one of the men who begin much of the trouble that comes to me." The man tried to wriggle away, can't you see — she's nothin' but "Stop that!" the judge commanded. "You will have to tell your story in court." By this time a crowd had sprung up from nowhere, and in the course of time a policeman arrived. The judge delivered his prisoner, guaranteed personally the appearance of the girl to prosecute, and turning to the shrinking figure in the doorway led her through the crowd. Curious ones trailed them a few minutes, but soon they were forgotten, and the night life of the twisted streets was resumed as if nothing had happened. The judge looked down at the wistful figure beside him and clenched his fists. She was still so trembling with fear that she could hardly tell him her address. This was the key to the degradation he saw everywhere — the organized vice ring lying in wait for unprotected victims. He knew of the existence of this ring. It was common knowledge. But to get specifically upon its trail was a different matter. Perhaps he now had found one end of the chain that might lead to the hidden power. He would pursue the matter relentlessly, and if he could find the evidence he was hunting, he would feel that his sacrifices, after all, had not been fruitless. Meanwhile he interested himself in the girl. There was a quaint daintiness about her, a pitiful little display of love of finery, not for ostentation, it ssemed to the judge, but because she had natural instincts that drew her toward the beautiful, so far as her small means and little opportunity would permit. Hers was not the sharp, pert face of the quarter, but one in which modesty was mingled with a searching quality. She always seemed to be asking whether the person at whom she looked was to be considered a friend. She was apparently satisfied with the answer to her question in the case of the judge, for it was not long before she was entirely at her ease, and was clinging close to his arm while she replied to his questions. Her name was Kitty Morgan, she had no relatives and few friends, she worked in a factory and made enough money to sup port herself in decency, if not an excess of comfort. Further than that there was nothing to toll. The honesty of the girl, her essential cleanness of mind, were manifest to the dullest observer. Yet there was a distinct trace of that primal, fighting instinct which is inevitable with snrls who