tune. "That one fatal step--that plighted
faith! How bitter to look back." Her bony fingers wander to her lips,
which she commences biting and fretting, as her countenance becomes pale
and corpse-like. Again her reason takes its flight. She staggers to the
drenched counter, holds forth her bottle, lays her last sixpence
tauntingly upon the board, and watches with glassy eyes the drawing of
the poisonous drug. Meanwhile Mr. Krone, with an imprecation, declares
he has power to elect his candidate to the Senate. The man behind the
counter--the man of savage face, has filled the maniac's bottle, which
he pushes toward her with one hand, as with the other he sweeps her coin
into a drawer. "Oh! save poor maniac Munday--save poor maniac Munday!"
the woman cries, like one in despair, clutching the bottle, and reels
out of the pit.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN WHICH IS PRESENTED ANOTHER PICTURE OF THE HOUSE OF THE NINE NATIONS.

Pale and hesitating, Brother Spyke says: "I have no passion for delving
into such places; and having seen enough for one night, am content to
leave the search for this vile old man to you." The valiant missionary
addresses Mr. Fitzgerald, who stands with one foot upon the rickety old
steps that lead to the second story of the House of the Nine Nations.

This morning, Brother Spyke was ready to do battle with the whole
heathen world, to drag it up into light, to evangelize it. Now he quails
before this heathen world, so terribly dark, at his own door.

"You have, sir," says the detective, "seen nuthin' as yet. The sights
are in these 'ere upper dens; but, I may say it, a body wants nerve.
Some of our Aldermen say ye can't see such sights nowhere else."

The missionary replies, holding tenaciously to his umbrella, "That may
be true; but I fear they will be waiting me at home." Again he scans
inquiringly into the drenched area of the Points; then bidding the
officer good-night, is soon out of sight, on his way into Centre Street.
Reaching the old stoop, the detective touches a spring, and the
shattered door opens into a narrow, gloomy passage, along which he
gropes his way, over a floor cobbled with filth, and against an
atmosphere thick of disease. Now a faint light flashes through a crevice
in the left wall, plays fantastically upon the black surface of the
opposite, then dies away. The detective lights his lantern, stands a
moment with his ear turned, as if listening to the revelry in the
bottomle