th
flushed countenance and trembling hand, ponders and ponders over the
paper. Then her emotions quicken, her eyes exchange glances with Mr.
Snivel, and she whispers, with a sigh, "found--at last! And yet how
foolish of me to give way to my feelings? The affair, at best, is none
of mine." Mr. Snivel bows, and curls his Saxon mustache. "To do good
for others is the natural quality of a generous nature."

Madame, somewhat relieved by this condescension of the Hon. gentleman,
says, in reply, "I am curious at solving family affairs."

"And I!" says our hero, with refreshing coolness--"always ready to do a
bit of a good turn."

Madame pauses, as if in doubt whether to proceed or qualify what she has
already said. "A relative, whose happiness I make my own," she resumes,
and again pauses, while the words tremble upon her lips. She hears the
words knelling in her ears: "A guilty conscience needs no betrayer."

"You have," pursues our hero, "a certain clue; and of that I may
congratulate you."

Madame says she will prepare at once to return to her home in New York,
and--and here again the words hang upon her lips. She was going to say,
her future proceedings would be governed by the paper she holds so
nervously in her finger.

Snivel here receives a nostrum from the lady's purse. "Truly!--Madame,"
he says, in taking leave of her, "the St. Cecilia will regret you--we
shall all regret you; you honored and graced our assemblies so. Our
first families will part with you reluctantly. It may, however, be some
satisfaction to know how many kind things will be said of you in your
absence." Mr. Snivel makes his last bow, a sarcastic smile playing over
his face, and pauses into the street.

On the following day she encloses a present of fifty dollars to Tom
Swiggs, enjoins the necessity of his keeping her visit to the
poor-house a secret, and takes leave of Charleston.

And here our scene changes, and we must transport the reader to New
York. It is the day following the night Mr. Detective Fitzgerald
discovered what remained of poor Toddleworth, in the garret of the House
of the Nine Nations. The City Hall clock strikes twelve. The goodly are
gathered into the House of the Foreign Missions, in which peace and
respectability would seem to preside. The good-natured fat man is in his
seat, pondering over letters lately received from the "dark regions" of
Arabia; the somewhat lean, but very respectable-looking Secretary, is
got nic