and poisonous agents that the runaway Vienna criminal drew his
increasing revenue. There was an aristocracy among the motley
customers.

From the "hypodermic" regulars, men and women, laying down their
syringes to be filled with the soul-stealing morphia solution--faded
men and trembling women, down to the shattered wretch, with his
pitiful twenty-five cents for a bit of "dope," no one with money
was turned away.

Yet all of these passed under Fritz Braun's watchful scrutiny.
The disguised criminal trembled lest some ugly-minded detective or
crank journalist might entrap him into the meshes of the law.

Alas! Nearly all the customers bore the seal of safety in their
imploring eyes. By the freemasonry of the degenerates, Magdal's
was a known haven of refuge to all the weaklings of Manhattan.

The frequent ringing of "Doctor Adler's" bell admitted to the
little dimly-lighted rear room the sullen-eyed visitors who bore
away the colorless vials of "knock-out drops," for which five- and
ten-dollar bills were eagerly thrust into Braun's itching palm.

This important traffic was confided to no one but the real proprietor.
And stealthily-treading, matronly-looking women often found their
way into the den, where nameless "remedies" were sold, often for
their weight in diamonds, the weapons of that hidden guild which
paves New York's streets with the bones of ignorant and martyred
women. For all the thirty-third degree trade of the "consulting-room,"
an "introduction" was stiffly demanded.