.. i *
What different dooms our birthdays brim;!
For instance, one little manikin thing
Survives to wear many a wrinkle;
While death forbids another to wake.
And a son that it took nine moons to make
Expires without even a twinkle.
Into this world we come like ships,
Launched from the docks, and stocks, and slips.
For fortune fair or fatal;
And one little craft is cast away
In its very first trip in Babbicome Bay,
While another rides safe at Fort Natal.
What different lots our stars accord
This babe to be hailed and wooed as a lord!
And that to be shunned like a leper!
One, to the world's wine, honey and corn,
Another, like Colchester native, born
To its vinegar only, and pepper.
One is littered under a roof
Neither wind nor water proof,—
That’s the prose of Love in a cottage,—
A puny, naked, shivering wretch,
The whole of whose birthright would not fetch,
Though Robins himself drew up the sketch,
The hid of “a mess of pottage.”
Born of Fortunata’s kin,
Another comes tenderly ushered in
To a prospect all bright and burnished;
No tenant he for life's black slums—
lie comes to the world as a gentleman comes
To a lodging readily furnished.
And the other sex—the tender, the fair—
What wide reverses of fate are there !
" HUM Margaret, unarmed by tl.e iiuioul rare,
In a garden of Gill reposes,
Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street
Till—think oi that, who find life so sweet—
She hates the smell of roses !
An elegantly dressed lady rushed into the room, fainted and fell across the dead body.
" ritten Expressly for The Sunny South.
UNDER A CLOUD;
THE TRAIL OF CRIME.
Author of “The
Y E. C. WALRAVEN,
Two Orphans,” “A Woman’s Devotion,” “A Game With Death,’
wealthy Xew York
occurred in 1809 at
story is based upon the famous murder of Nathans, the
merchant, and known as the “ Nathans Murder,” which
lis splendid residence on Twenty-seventh street. The house
never been occupied since the bloody deed, and no cine having ever been dis-
coveied by the shrewdest Xew \ork police and still sharper detectives, it is re
garded as the most mysterious murder in American history, lint our author,
who is familiar with New \ork city, gives his own startling theory in the follow
See note at the end of Chapter II.
In New York, several years ago, a solidly-built
but yet picturesque-looking old mansion’stood,
tbe solitary occupant of the square between
Fifty-sixth and Fifty-seventh streets, and Fifth
and Sixth avenues, with its doors jealously
closed against the eyes of the curious.
This house had not always been plunged in
silence and sadness. Some twenty years before,
its spacious balls bad resounded with the light
tread of joyous visitors. But since the year 1850,
it had stood a lonely shadow of solitude.
Those who inquired the cause of'the change
were told that its owner, Mr. De Vere, a rich de
scendant ol an old English family, and a man
devoted to all the selfish interests of life, had
suddenly fallen in love with a beautiful young
girl, who partially reciprocated his passion. lie
sought her hand in marriage, but her parents j
were deal to all bis entreaties, for they feared to ;
entrust their daughterto one whom they believed
to be a selfish man of the world.
The young girl was, a short time afterwards,
married to a member of New York’s best society,
Mr. Charles 5 an Horn, a gentleman of refined
taste and culture.
I fom that moment Mr. De Vere secluded him
self from the world. No one knew how he lived,
Fox took in everything at a glance. At first
sight, he thought the murder had been cominit-
Fox gazed significantly at the chief of police.
After a moment of silence, he walked up to the
latter and whispered:
“I maintain that Rube has been here: also,
bis companion Legget; also, that this woman is
“ We’ll see. Ah ! what is that?”
Stooping down, the detective picked up a
small leather card-case which had fallen from the
lady’s hands. It contained two or three notes
and a photograph.
“Look at this portrait,” he said, holding it
out to the chief.
“ What about it?”
i “It is tbe photograph of Charles Van Horn.”
] “ Well?”
“Doesn’t it strike you as curious that the pro-
I tege of Sir. De Vere should carry the portrait of
Mr. Van Horn ?”
j Before the chief could answer, Miss Dunham
opened her eyes, and upon perceiving the card-
| case in the detective’s hands, gave a cry and ex-
“ My God!—that portrait! Charles—oh! I
have betrayed you !”
j She fell back into a second swoon, but her
words were not without their effect.
“This is grave,” said the chief. “Here is
perhaps a revelation. We must see Mr. Van
After giving all necessary directions to the
ted through some personal cause of hate or re- police in charge of the house, Fox and the chief
venge, hut upon further consideration, was walked rapidly towards Mr. Van Horn's resi-
obliged to retract his original idea, for the room 1 dence.
had evidently been pillaged of its most valuable Upon arriving there, what was their surprise
contents. A private safe bad been opened, and to lind the house in a state of terrible commo-
the ffoor was littered with broken drawers and tion. Hastily making inquiries, they found that
Suddenly he gave a cry of surprise.
“ V hat is the matter ?” asked the chief.
Fox pointed to the floor and whispered:
“ Do yon see those footprints ?”
“ Only one man could have made them.”
“ Lame liube.”
“ Are you certain ?”
“I am sure of it.”
At this moment, a carriage rolled up to tbe
door, and a young lady, to all appearances
greatly mystified at seeing the house thrown
: something unusual had also happened here. At
I first they were unable to see any member of tbe
: household; but, while looking about them, they
discovered the butler.
“What has taken place?” asked Fox of the
“ Sir, Mr. Van Horn has committed suicide.
Grief for his wife, probably, who died yesterday,
: was the cause.”
“An unlucky day,” muttered the chief, as he
; turned and left the house.
j “ A strange series of events, at least,” rejoined
the detective. “I don’t quite understand; but
no matter—we’ll see what we shall see.”
Mr. Van Horn’s funeral took place two days after
“ Ah !” muttered Fox, upon observing her; 1 the occurrences justrelated; and at the time, Eox
“ here is something new.” 1 learned that all the servants of the house were
Hastening out of the room, he arrived in the 1 present except one. Upon inquiry, he discovered
lower hall as she was entering. i that the missing man had not been heard from
“ Do you wish to see Mr. De Vere ?” he asked \ since the night of the crime.
J the first speaker’s hand and nearly wringing it
from its socket. “How are yon, old boy?”
“First rate. But allow me to introduce you
to my friends. Mr. Gullet, Mr. Dubois, let me
make you acquainted with my more than broth
er. Lieutenant Philip, of the ship Emma.”
The gentlemen bowed, and soon all were con
versing more like old friends than new ac
“How long have you been in tbe city?” in
quired George Huntington of the young sailor.
“ Two days only.”
“Why haven’t you been to see me before
this ? ”
“I did not know your address, although I
have been looking for you everywhere.”
“ Well, now that you have found me, come to
supper: we can talk about the old times better
over a glass of wine than in tbe street.”
“ ■ Where you go be’—you know the rest, old
“Bv the way, you haven’t seen much of New
York, Philip. Suppose we show you some of its
curious phases ? There is an old shanty down
on the east side, near the river, which has be
come almost notorious lately. It is known as
tbe Bed Inn, and I must say that I am curious
to see it myself.”
“Anything you please,” laughed Philip.
The other two seemed willing to go to the pro
posed place, and all started across to the east
“You see, it will be a change,” continued
George, “and changes are good for tbe health.
I did intend to take yon to Delmonioo’s, but we
will try tbe lied Inn first. As New York is being
remodeled so rapidly, we won’t have many of
these mysterious nooks much longer.”
George Huntington was twenty, rich and
handsome. After having passed several years
abroad with his father anil sister, he had re- j
turned to New York, and was already a well-
known member of society. He bad made Philip’s
acquaintance in Italy, and the two young men I
were not long in becoming fast friends.
Philip was a young man possessed of sympa
thetic and expressive features. His character |
was a mixture of strength and sensibility. The
need of adventure which dominated all his aspi
rations had its source, not only in his lively na
ture, but also in a secret grief which it will be
our duty to penetrate.
While passing through Fourteenth street, the
young men concluded to stop for a few moments
in a respectable little restaurant which Hunting-
ton knew was celebrated for its good wine, and
invigorate themselves with some bright Maderia.
and he was rarely seen save by bis servants. In | politely, at the same time examining her sharply, i For want of substantial evidence, the murder They were soon seated around a small table in
fact, he soon became a stranger to the society of “ Is he not at home ?” she questioned in sur- 1 3 v 1 1 “ ’* 1 ' “ " ’ ~ ‘ ’
sur- ; soon ceased to be spoken of; but tbe results were
yet to show their stain, and they will be gradu-
De Vere is in his room, ally unrolled as this most mysterious drama is
laid before the eyes of the world.
however, _ , _ _ ....
breathlessly into the office of the district police- W bom sball I have the honor of announcing?”
station and announced the fact that Mr. De Vere, “There is no need of announcing me.”
his master, had been murdered. “ Ah! ” exclaimed the detective; “I presume
I lie chief of police, upon hearing all the facts, '.that I am speaking to Miss Dunham. Follow
detailed a messenger to one of the city’s most j me, if you please.”
acute detectives The latter, who was generally 1 The detective recognized in the young lady i young men were walking down Broadway.
Known as ox, started lor the De Vere mansion, I an actress whom Mr. De Vere had educated, and ; “Let us have supper,” said one of them, w
the rear of tbe room, and after some trivial con-
ersation had been indulged in, Mr. Dubois re- ! are you coming?”
though this visit will be in your interest, she
will receive it as a personal favor.
“ 142 East Eighth street.”
“Do you know any such person?” Philip
asked of George.
“ Can’t say that I ever heard of her.”
“ But what can she want with me ?”
“ That’s the mystery. Ask the boy.”
The latter, on being questioned, could only
say that tbe lady bad been in the restaurant
some minutes previous, but that she had left
after giving him the note.
“The best way to find out wbat she wants
will be to keep the rendezvous,” interrupted
George, when Philip was plying the boy with
questions which he could not answer. “But
come, boys; if we want to see tbe Bed Inn, we
In a lew moments, the party were again on
their way, and a brisk walk of half an hour
brought them to one of the worst localities of
New York. On all sides were dilapidated dance
houses, gloomy gin-mills and dirty tenements.
The uncertain light of the street lamps threw a
ghastly pallor over the squalid scene.
“ Where are we?” asked Philip.
“No matter,” rejoined his friend, mysteri
ously. “ This is the home of crime and misery,
into which the rich seldom penetrate, the chari
tably disposed never. However, wait until you
see my inn.”
They plunged more deeply into this gloomy
neighborhood, and suddenly George stopped
before a half broken-down shanty, which had
once been painted red, but which was colored
variously by the ravages of time. Tbe windows
of the upper story seemed to be falling away
from their supports, and tbe lower door, which
served as the common entrance, was almost bat
tered out of shape, while through its wide chinks
penetrated the light of the lamps within, and
also the shrieks of almost savage revelry.
This was the Bed Inn.
George kicked open the door, and the four
The sight which met their gaze almost baffles
description. On the right side of the room was
a counter, on which were scattered broken tum
blers, plates and bottles. Behind the counter
j was a long shelf lieaviljrttocked with bottles
i containing every variety of bad liquor. Between
j the shelf and. the counter scood a woman, or
•. v U-mr!' 3 defer 1 *'■ f ' l \ for «b« deserved no
I other name. She nud a nuuy turban wonfia
! about her bead, and her face betrayed the ut
most animal degradation. She was blind in
! one ej*e, and her chin was long and peaked.
1 This horrible specimen of tbe human race was
Mother Dixey, and her husband, an immense
brute standing beside her, was the proprietor ot
I On the floor were stretched six or seven half-
drunken men, and in the back of tbe room a
; man and a girl were engaged in a hideous dance.
In tbe extreme rear could be seen a rickety
; stair-case leading to an upper room which was
enveloped in darknass.
“ What a horrible scene !” murmured 1’bilip
in a low voice to his friends.
The remark was overheard, and a man stand
ing behind them replied in a sneering voice:
“This ain’t a parlor, young man.”
Philip looked hastily around at these words,
and saw near him a dark, sinister lace surmount
ing a body nearly as broad as it was long.
George shuddered and moved away at the
j sight of this individual.
“Who is that man?” he asked partly of his
friends, partly of himself.
“Would you like to know?” inquired a man
I who was observing them closely without looking
directly at them.
“ Yes,” stammered George.
“He is one of the most skillful burglars in
“What is bis name?”
“Well, be is known here as Peters, but to the
police as Bube—lame Rube.”
“ Bube !” echoed Philip, growing pale.
“ Do you know him?” asked the stranger.
“No,’no; but I shouldn’t be sorry to assure
myself of his identity.”
With these words, tbe young sailor started
after Bube, who was leaving tbe inn. He over
took him a few feet from tbe door, and tapped
him on the shoulder. Springing aside with an
agility that seemed surprising in one of so stout
a body, Bube drew from bis pocket a knife and
stcod in a menacing attitude.
“ You need not fear,” said Philip; “ I am not
what you suppose.”
“Wbat do you want of me?” asked the bur
“I have no intention of following you. I
simply wish to know if your name is Bube.
“In that ease, I must talk with yon.”
“ About something important which yon will
learn later. Tell me where I can meet you.
Where do you live ?”
“ Will you come alone?”
“ I promise you I will.”
“No tricks, eh?”
“ None whatever. You may trust me.”
“ I guess I can;” and there was a tone of irony
in Rube’s voice. “I live in Roosevelt street. No.
35. It’s near tbe river. I’ll be on hand. When
HE RED INN.
eleven o’clock at night when
accompanied by the servant and the chief of
Upon arriving at the house, Fox directed the
servant to lead the way; and hastening up-stairs,
they were soon ushered upon the scene of the
llioy found themselves in a library, and, by
the iuint light of day which threw its dim rays
over the gloomy chamber, they easily distin
guished the body of a man, bathed in a pool
When they arrived up-stairs, Fox
around and said:
“ Before allowing you to enter, I must tell
you that something has happened.”
“Has Mr. De Vere been arrested?” she asked
“ Worse than that. He is dead!”
At these words, she rushed past the detective,
iof blood, and lying face downward upon the threw open the door, and with a loud shriek^
/floor. : swooned at the feet of the corpse.
I “Do yon intend t» remain in New York, Mr.
I Philip ?”
“ Perhaps I shall be here for a long time,” re-
; plied the sailor. “I am here on business which
three may decide my future life.”
“ It must be serious,” said George, lialf-smil-
“It is indeed, I ”
“Agreed,” cried the other two, turning to re- Before Philip could finish the sentence, a boy
turned trace their steps. 1 walked up and touched him on the shoulder, at
They were about moving away, when a young | the same time holding out a note,
man, who had been walking on the opposite; “ l’or me ?” inquired the sailor in astonish-
side of the street, crossed over, and laying his i ment, but at the same time taking tbe paper,
band on the shoulder of one of them, said, as if “A billet-doux, I wager, ” laughed George,
hoping by his presence to give an agreeable sur- i Philip smiled, opened the note and read
prise: | aloud:
“Do not leave me behind, I beg of you.” I “Sir,—A person who is unknown to you, but
“ Philip !” cried the one addressed. j to whom you are not a stranger, desires to see
“ George!” answered the new-comer, clasping you at her residence to-morrow afternoon. Al-
“All right; but don’t try to play any games,
yon know. ’Twon’t work—I’ll tell ye before
With these words, Rube limped away, and
Philip returned to his companions, who, having
once seen the place, had not the slightest desire
to eat anything there, and were ready to take
A supper up town, cards, and then a morning
nap, and it was time for Philip to answer the
note he had received the evening previous.
It was early in the afternoon when he was ad
mitted to a cosily-furnished drawing-room at
Miss Cathcart’s home, and he had not long to
wait before tbe mysterious letter-writer entered
Miss Catbcart was in every way calculated to
melt the heart, especially of a young man. She j
was young and extremely beautiful, besides pos-*