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.. i * 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; — on,— THE TRAIL OF CRIME. Author of “The Y E. C. WALRAVEN, Two Orphans,” “A Woman’s Devotion,” “A Game With Death,’ Tin’s thrilling wealthy Xew York occurred in 1809 at lias 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 ing storv. See note at the end of Chapter II. PROLOGUE. 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 their accomplice.” “ Impossible.” “ 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- : claimed: “ 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 Horn immediately.” 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 boxes. 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 ?” “Yes.” “ Only one man could have made them.” “Who?” “ 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 open, alighted : 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 I sorvant. “ 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 quaintances. “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 fellow. ” “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 side. “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 ' “ " ’ ~ ‘ ’ men. One servant rushed prise. ‘Excuse me; Mr. 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. stranger 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. “Alice Cathcakt, “ 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 must hurry.” 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 friends entered. 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 the establishment. 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 tbe country. “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 glar sharply. “I have no intention of following you. I simply wish to know if your name is Bube. Is it?” “Yes.” “In that ease, I must talk with yon.” “What about?” “ 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 It CHAPTER I. HE RED INN. eleven o’clock at night when accompanied by the servant and the chief of police. 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 crime. 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 old mansion. 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 anxiously. “ 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. marked: 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- hen ingly. “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- To-morrow. “All right; but don’t try to play any games, yon know. ’Twon’t work—I’ll tell ye before hand.” 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 their departure. 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 the room. 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-*