Yonder, in the still winter night, THE TEMPLE stands, all dark and sullen without, but bright with festal lights within. Stand here in the dark, and you will see the guests of the temple come,--now one by one,--now two by two,--sometimes in parties of four,--and all are carefully cloaked and masked. They come noiselessly along the dark street: they glide stealthily up the steps, and beneath the arch of the gloomy door. A gentle knock,--the door is slightly opened,--a password is whispered,--and one by one, and two by two, and sometimes in parties of four, the guests of THE TEMPLE glide over its threshold, and pass like shadows from the sight. Shall we also enter? Not yet. We will wait until the revel is at its height, and until the masks begin to fall. Meanwhile, we will follow the adventures of ARTHUR DERMOYNE. About half-past twelve o'clock, Arthur Dermoyne stood in the street, in front of the house of MADAM RESIMER. Wrapped in his cloak, and with his cap drawn over his eyes, he stood in the shadows, and gazed fixedly upon the mansion opposite. It stood in the midst of a crowded street, joined with houses on either side, and yet it stood alone. Black and sullen with its closed shutters and somber exterior, it seemed to bear upon its face the stamp of the infernal crimes which had been committed within its walls. Lofty mansions lined the street, but their wealthy occupants little knew the real character of the woman (woman!--fiend would be a better name) who tenanted the gloomy house. With great difficulty,--it matters not how,--Arthur had discovered the haunt of this murderess. Her name was one of those names which creep through society like the vague panic which foretells the pestilence; there were few who did not know that such a person existed, and few whose hearts did shrink in loathing, from the very mention of her name. But her haunt, centered in an aristocratic quarter, was comparatively unknown; only her customers and some of the publishers of newspapers, with whom she advertised, were aware that the sullen house which stood in a fashionable street, was the den of MADAM RESIMER. That such a creature should exist, and grow rich in the city of New York, in the middle of the nineteenth century, by the pursuit of a traffic which, in its incredible infamy, has no name in language, may well excite the horror of every man and woman with a human heart within their bosom. We read of the female poisoner, and shudder; but console ourselves with the thought, "These things happened in the dark ages, long ago, when knowledge was buried, and the human heart was utterly depraved."