“Soon, soon, soon,” mumbles the old man, in a whisper; and having carefully returned the crucifix to his bosom, grasps fervently the hand of the girl and kisses it, as her eyes swim in tears.

Such, to the shame of those who live in princely palaces, and revel in luxury, are but faintly-drawn pictures of what may be seen in the house of the Nine Nations.

The detective is about to give up the search, and turns to descend the stairs, when suddenly he discerns a passage leading to the north end of the garret.  Here, in a little closet-like room, on the right, the rats his only companions, lies the prostrate form of poor Toddleworth.

“Well, I persevered till I found you,” says the detective, turning his light full upon the body.  Another minute, and his features become as marble; he stands aghast, and his whole frame seems struggling under the effect of some violent shock.  “What, what, what!” he shouts, in nervous accents, “Murder! murder! murder! some one has murdered him.”  Motionless the form lies, the shadow of the light revealing the ghastly spectacle.  The head lies in a pool of blood, the bedimmed eyes, having taken their last look, remain fixedly set on the black roof.  “He has died of a blow-of a broken skull!” says the frightened official, feeling, and feeling, and pressing the arms and hands that are fast becoming rigid.  Life is gone out; a pauper’s grave will soon close over what remains of this wretched outcast.  The detective hastens down stairs, spreads the alarm over the neighborhood, and soon the House of the Nine Nations is the scene of great excitement.

CHAPTER XXIX.

In which may be seen A few of our common evils.

Leaving for a time the scenes in the House of the Nine Nations, let us return to Charleston, that we may see how matters appertaining to this history are progressing.  Mr. Snivel is a popular candidate for the Senate of South Carolina; and having shot his man down in the street, the question of his fighting abilities we regard as honorably settled.  Madame Montford, too, has by him been kept in a state of nervous anxiety, for he has not yet found time to search in the “Poor-house for the woman Munday.”  All our very first, and best-known families, have dropped Madame, who is become a wet sheet on the fashionable world.  A select committee of the St. Cecilia has twice considered her expulsion, while numerous very respectable and equally active old ladies have been shaking their scandal-bags at her head.  Sins have been laid at her door that would indeed damage a reputation with a fairer endorsement than New York can give.