THE HOUSE AMONG THE PINES
Clever rascals are of necessity friendless and incomparably lonely men. Prudence prevents them from confiding their affairs to any other, even their nearest and dearest; therefore they are obliged to lead self-centred and segregated lives in the truest sense of the term, and are absolutely prohibited from tasting that greatest of luxuries, human sympathy. Since my last embarkation upon a career of villainy, I had so far escaped the pangs of ennui, because my mind had been always occupied with my ambition, and action had followed mercifully fast upon design. The mere fact, however, of having succeeded in making myself a rich man, robbed me of that precious concern for the future which had hitherto been my refuge from reflection. It is true that considerations of vengeance partially supplied its place, but as I had yet to find my enemy before I could exchange purpose for practice, I began to realize the utter isolation of my state. I arrived at Paris in a desolate and listless mood, and so wearied with my own companionship that I was ready to make friends with a dog.
For that reason, while sipping coffee after dinner in the saloon of the Hotel de Louvre, where I had put up, I by no means disdained the overtures of an old and weazened little Frenchman, who appeared to be as lonely as myself.
He was a curious looking creature: grey, grizzled, and stooped of shoulder. His face was seamed with a thousand wrinkles, that even overspread his long melancholy nose. But his eyes, although small, were very bright, and his mouth was that of a humourist.
He sidled up to me by degrees, evidently wishful to make my acquaintance, and yet a little nervous of the first step. But I met him half way with an observation on the weather, and presently we were seated before the same table in close and animated conversation.
"Life is for the most part a dull and dreary affair, monsieur," said he.
"The remark of an intelligent and experienced man, monsieur," said I.
He bowed and smiled. "That is true, monsieur," he returned, "but your discernment proves that you also possess the qualities which you have mentioned."
"Yet in an inferior degree, for I take it that I am your junior, and you have the air of a man who has improved his opportunities to the utmost."
The compliment delighted him. "Monsieur," he cried, "I am fortunate to have encountered you. I desire to know you better. Permit me! I call myself—Bertrand Du Gazet. I am a native of Paris, but I have spent half my life in America, where I acquired a certain fortune. I have but just returned to France, to find my relatives and old friends dead and widely scattered, and myself utterly forgotten. It is a sad home-coming."
"Truly," I said politely. "My name, monsieur, is Henri Belloc, and, strange to say, I too have long been a stranger to my country. This very day I have come back to Paris after an absence of many years. And, like you, I have none to welcome me."
"We are then comrades in misfortune," he declared, beaming upon me the while. "I drink, monsieur, to our better acquaintance."
"And I," said I, raising my petit verre to my lips. "I drink to its speedy ripening into friendship."
He put one hand upon his heart and extended to me the other, which I warmly pressed.
"I am a bachelor," he observed.
"I, too, monsieur."
"Of all the things in this world, I like the gaming table," said he.
"The dice are fine thought killers, monsieur."
"I loved once a beautiful woman, and she betrayed me."
"It is a habit of the accursed sex, from which I also have suffered."
"Monsieur!" he cried, "I perceive well that we are destined to be friends. We have not only a similarity of thought and sentiment, but also of experience."
"Garçon," I shouted, "a bottle of champagne and two glasses."
The wine was brought and we pledged each other with effusion.
"I made my fortune out of oil," said Du Gazet.
"I made mine upon the Stock Exchange," said I.
"Mine is so great that I could not spend it in ten years, though I lost a thousand francs a night."
"Mine is even more considerable, M. Du Gazet."
He nodded and gave me a beaming smile. "Have you any plans for the evening, M. Belloc?"
"None," I replied.
"Then allow me to be your mentor. I know a place not far from here where one may woo the goddess Fortune to be kind. It is true that last night I lost five thousand francs by hazard of the wheel, but I would like well to recoup myself, and shall do so, as you shall see—if you will be so good as to come with me."
"With pleasure," I cried, and sprang to my feet.
I suspected by then that my new friend was nothing more or less than the tout of some gaming house. But I was reckless, and the companionship of any rascal seemed preferable to being left alone. A moment later we were strolling arm in arm down the Rue St. Germain L'Auxerrois. Chatting amiably together, we came, at the end of some few minutes, to the Rue St. Denis, up which we turned. Shortly after passing the Rue Mauconseil, we entered a narrow unnamed side-street, which was nevertheless flanked with respectable-looking houses of antique but substantial architecture. Before the door of one of these M. Du Gazet stopped, and giving me a meaning glance, he proceeded to scratch upon the panels with his ring. The signal was immediately responded to. The door opened a few inches, and a voice from the interior darkness demanded our business.
"Montereau," replied my guide.
"Enter!" cried the voice, and the door swung wide.
M. Du Gazet took my arm and conducted me in silence down a dark, thickly carpeted hall. We had barely half traversed it, however, when the door keeper suddenly turned on an electric lamp, and I perceived before us a wide staircase, supported on double rows of marble columns, that led to the floor above.
"Good!" exclaimed my mentor. "I detest gloom. Come, my friend."
Nothing loth, I followed him up the stairs, and a moment later we reached a landing-stage that was filled with huge palms growing in tubs of earthenware. A liveried attendant guarded a closed door that was half screened with fronds.
He looked at us inquiringly, but M. du Gazet muttered some pass-word in his ear, and he ushered us forthwith into an immense brilliantly illuminated apartment, which was sparsely thronged with well-dressed men and women, and furnished in imitation of the Casino at Monaco.
One table was devoted to roulette, a second to rouge et noir, and a third to baccarat. All were occupied, but, because perhaps of the earliness of the hour, there were not many onlookers. M. du Gazet led me to the second named, and after watching the game for about a quarter hour, we were both able to secure chairs at the board, owing to the evil fortune of the individuals we displaced. Like most other votaries of chance, I had and have a method. It is simple if unscientific, and it consists in backing each colour alternately seven times in succession. I at first contented myself with small stakes, being anxious to watch my mentor. M. du Gazet, however, much to my surprise, for I still believed him to be a tout, began to gamble in earnest from the moment he sat down, and each time he staked five hundred francs.
"Truly," thought I, "if he is a tout, he must have an interest in the bank, or he would not be trusted with so much money."
After I had seen him lose four thousand francs, I ceased to doubt his honesty, for his appearance was transformed. The born gambler's spirit gleamed out of his eyes. His face had assumed a warm fixed flush, and he was absorbed in his game to the absolute oblivion of every other circumstance. I spoke to him in order to make sure, but he cursed me in an undertone without turning his head. He had in fact forgotten my existence.
Feeling more at ease, I immediately increased my stakes, betting on the red. Luck favoured me, and I won steadily; on the red five times out of seven, on the black almost without a break. At the end of an hour, so large a heap of gold and notes had accumulated on the table before me, that it interfered with my elbow room, and I was obliged to stand up in order to make my game. The room had by then become filled with people, and an interested crowd had assembled to watch me play. Success had made me excited, and given me a measure of the gambling fever. I increased my stakes to the limit and won again and again. The exclamations of the onlookers became each moment more loud and unrestrained, so that the croupier's directions could only be heard at intervals: "Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames. Faites vos jeux! Rouge perd. Noir gagne! Faites vos jeux!"
I was in the act of stretching out my hand to place a large sum upon the black for the seventh time in succession, when some inexplicable instinctive feeling compelled me to look up from the board and into the face of a new-comer who stood watching the game from behind the chair of my immediate vis-à-vis. The man was a negro. With a queer thrill of apprehension I looked at him more closely, and then for a second I was almost stunned with surprise. He was Jussieu, the infernal canting negro surgeon, who at the instance of his master, Sir Charles Venner, had inflicted upon my bound and defenceless body tortures which made me shudder to remember, and who on his own account had dared to lecture and insult me. Before I could collect my scattered wits our eyes met, and the recognition became mutual. The villain started back a pace and glared at me, his eyes rolling in his head. He was attired in a fashionably cut evening suit, in which he tried to ape the gentleman, but his immaculate linen threw out his broad black face and hands into bold and hideous relief, and he looked like nothing but a monster. For a moment I shook with rage, and a murderous impulse almost overwhelmed me. Then came a wiser thought, and I grew calm. I said to myself: "Since the jackal is here, the lion cannot be far away. I shall make this scoundrel lead me to his master's lair!"
Holding him with my eyes, I fumbled with my hands upon the table, and began to stuff my winnings into my pockets. The crowd exclaimed in astonishment, but I paid them no heed. Before, however, I was half through with my business, Jussieu tore his eyes from mine and hurried towards the door. I sent my chair crashing behind me with a backward kick and seized Du Gazet by the shoulder.
"Look after my money!" I cried. "I shall see you later at the hotel."
Without awaiting a response, I broke through the crowd and darted after Jussieu. He had already passed the door, but I caught up with him half way down the stairs, and, seizing him by the shoulder, obliged him to pause.
"What, Monsieur Jussieu!" I snarled, "would you run away from an old friend? That is not kind in you."
"You mistake, m'sieur!" he cried. "That is not my name."
"Perhaps not," I muttered. "It will, however, serve my turn. Come, monsieur!" I slipped my arm through his and urged him down the stairs.
Although a larger man than me, he yielded like a coward to my imperious demand, protesting volubly the while, however, that I had made a great mistake, that his name was Grenier, and that he had never set eyes on me.
He was still protesting when we reached the street. But as soon as the door of the gambling house had closed behind us I cut him short.
"Look you, Jussieu!" I growled, "I have in my pocket a revolver that is loaded in every chamber. Take me at once to your master, Sir Charles Venner, or, by the Lord, I shall put a bullet through your head!"
"Monsieur," he began, "I assure you——"
"Silence!" I interrupted. "Another word and you are a dead man!"
A hasty glance had shown me that the street was deserted. I produced my pistol, therefore, as I spoke and presented it to his breast.
The negro started back, rolling his eyes like a maniac, but he spoke no word. He was shivering with fear. I smiled and returned the weapon to my pocket. Thereupon I gripped his arm and muttered in his ear: "Proceed!"
Uttering a sort of groan, he set off slowly for the Rue Saint Denis. "Quicker!" I commanded. He increased his pace. We turned the corner, and a smart walk brought us quickly to the Rue D'Enghien. Turning into that street the negro stopped presently before the door of a large three-storied house, whose every window was closely shuttered.
"We have arrived, monsieur," he muttered in a hollow voice.
"You have a latch-key, perhaps?" I asked.
"Yes."
I looked steadily at the house for a moment or two, then curtly ordered my companion to proceed, still, however, retaining a firm hold of his arm. Five minutes later we came to the Faubourg Poissonnière. Hailing a fiacre, I invited Jussieu to enter, and quickly took a seat beside him. "The Hotel de Louvre!" I shouted to the driver, and we were off.
The negro was so still and docile that I began to suspect him of meditating some plan of escape. Producing my pistol, I thrust the muzzle into his side and cocked it with a loud click. "Death is very near to you, Jussieu!" I said.
"For God's sake, monsieur!" he groaned.
"Sit very still, Jussieu. It has a hair trigger, and my hand is trembling. I am remembering that it was you who pierced my fingers with needles and seared my foot with branding irons!"
"Mercy, mercy! Forgive!" he wailed.
His terror was so sharp and evident that I could not withstand the temptation to play upon it.
"Why should I pardon you?" I demanded. "What mercy did you show to me—you infamous wretch?"
"M'sieur, I was but the tool of others. Do not kill me. For Christ's sake put up your pistol."
"On the contrary, Jussieu," I said in a terrible voice. "Unless you consent to obey me implicitly, you shall die this instant, like the dog you are!"
"Mercy, mercy!" he cried. "I shall do anything you require—anything."
"Will you betray your master?"
"Yes, yes; only, for God's sake, put up your pistol!"
For answer I thrust the muzzle even harder into his side. "Now," said I, "tell me!" But he uttered a strangled cry.
"M'sieur—I—I—I faint, I die," he gasped, and to my astonishment he lurched forward and fell in a limp heap at my feet. I thought at first it was a trick, and held myself in readiness for a desperate struggle, for in good truth I dared not use my pistol. But the passing lamps showed me Jussieu's black face turned almost grey, and his staring eyes hideously upturned. The craven had swooned. I fell back chuckling with delight, for I had been until that moment wondering how on earth I could possibly contrive to force the brute into my hotel in case he should turn rusty and decline to accompany me.
As it eventuated, Jussieu was carried, still unconscious, to my room by two burly porters, whose garrulous surprise, occasioned by so strange a service, I reduced to speechlessness with gold. It was five minutes to eleven when I got rid of them. I locked my door and approached the couch on which the negro lay. He was beginning to wake up. Hastily tearing a linen sheet into strips I succeeded in securely binding his hands and feet before he had properly regained his consciousness. I then fastened him to the couch and stood over him with my pistol cocked.
He opened his eyes and blinked up at me.
"In what pocket is the key of your master's door?" I demanded.
"In the right hand side trouser pocket," he answered with a shudder.
"Where is Sir Charles Venner at this moment?"
"At home, monsieur, in bed, I think."
"Does he know that you are out?"
"Yes, m'sieur."
"Where does he sleep?"
"Upstairs, m'sieur, on the second floor, the second room on the left from the head of the staircase."
"Thanks. And who else is there in the house?"
"No—one, m'sieur." He closed his eyes.
"Think, Jussieu!" I growled. "Where is Beudant, your brother negro?"
He did not reply.
"My hand is getting tired," I said coldly. "Let me remind you, Jussieu, that the pistol is furnished with a hair trigger."
The threats galvanised him.
"Beudant sleeps downstairs, on the ground floor," he cried.
"And the others?"
"There are no others, m'sieur."
"You do badly to lie to me, Jussieu. Say your prayers, my man; you have just a minute to live."
His face went grey, and his eyes almost started from his head. "Mercy, mercy!" he groaned. "I shall tell you the whole truth."
"Quickly, then!"
"A lady occupies the third floor with her servants—while my master, Beudant, and I dwell on the second floor——" He paused.
"And the ground floor, Jussieu?" I cried impatiently.
"It contains only living rooms, m'sieur. No one sleeps there."
I nodded, for I saw that he had told me the truth. Uncocking the revolver I seized it by the barrel and, bending forward, before he could guess of my intention, I struck him a violent blow over the temple with the butt. A white man's skull would have been shivered into fragments. Jussieu merely sighed, but a second blow, more powerfully delivered still, rendered him insensible. Forcing his jaws agape, I gagged him with a towel, and afterwards ransacked his pockets. They contained a bunch of keys, a few gold pieces, and a handful of silver. I had scarcely bestowed his possessions about my person when a knock sounded on the door.
"Who is there?" I demanded, striding forward.
"It is I, monsieur, Bertrand du Gazet," answered a muffled voice.
Cautiously opening the door I peered out, and saw standing in the passage without the little old man who had taken me to the gambling house. His hands were full of notes and gold.
"It is your money I have brought you as you requested," he observed, smiling genially. "You were foolish to leave so soon, monsieur. Fortune does not often so bountifully confer her favours. See, here are more than seven thousand francs. Indeed, you were wrong to run away, monsieur."
I was in a quandary. I could not admit my unwelcome visitor, and I did not like to drive him away, since he had come to do me a kindness. Putting on a fine air of frankness, I said to him in low tones: "My dear Du Gazet, I cannot thank you as I ought just now—because I have a visitor, you understand."
An expression of disgust crossed his face. He thought, it seemed, that my visitor was of the fair sex.
"I would not disturb you for the world," he muttered with sarcasm, "but what of your money?"
"Oblige me by keeping it until to-morrow."
"As you will; good-night, monsieur." He shrugged his shoulders and departed, his whole bearing expressive of contempt. No doubt he considered me a liar, since I had railed against womankind quite as bitterly as he had done not many hours before.
I could not, however, afford to waste thought on him, for I had much to do. Stripping off my evening clothes, I speedily changed into a suit of dark brown tweed, and drew on my feet a pair of felt-soled shoes. Having armed myself with a large sum of money and a loaded revolver, I stole softly out of the room. While locking the door behind me I heard a distant sigh. Swinging round I peered in the direction of the sound, and for a fleeting fragment of a second saw a face at the far end of the corridor. It vanished so swiftly, however, that I had no time to register its impression on my mind, and a moment later I doubted that I had seen anything. The corridor was deserted absolutely save for myself. I waited for a few silent minutes, then, reassured, made my way to the street. A fiacre drove me to the Boulevard Poissonière, where, having alighted, I walked to the Rue D'Enghien, and as the clocks were chiming the hour after midnight, I arrived before my place of destination, the house that contained my enemy. Without pausing an instant, I climbed the steps and noiselessly inserted Jussieu's latch-key into the lock of the front door. It yielded, the door opened with a slight creak, and I crossed the threshold. I found myself in a wide but dimly lighted hall. It was carpeted with cocoanut matting. Doors crowded its sides, all closed. Before me was a staircase, whose steps were composed of slate, which had been worn away in the middle, as if by centuries of footfalls. I was about to mount when of a sudden a strange wonder caught me and I paused. Until that moment blind hate had controlled my actions and carried me where I stood. But now I asked myself the question: "Agar Hume, what will you do? Is it murder that you contemplate?"
It was a fearful thought, and I shuddered as it came. But I could not answer it. I had never known so little of myself. In mind and body I was alert, expectant, calm. But there was that in me which I could not understand, a malignant remorseless spirit which had possession of my faculties, and which declined to be questioned or displaced. At its command I ceased to speculate, and began instead to listen. The house was as silent as a tomb. Some power beyond my cognizance presently plucked at my feet, and I found myself mounting the stairs. I remember passing one door and turning the handle of a second. Then I was in a room, dark as Erebus, creeping towards a bed, upon which lay an unseen sleeper, whose long, deep respirations guided my stealthy movements. What ensued appeared even then like nothing so much as the happenings of some wild and fevered dream. I paused beside the bed and my hands, drawn by an irresistible power, glided light as feathers across the coverlid, across a man's sleeping form, unto his throat. There they settled and took hold. I heard a strangled groan. A sudden bright light filled the room, and Sir Charles Venner's livid outstarting eyes glared into mine. His arms encircled me. With an almost super-human strength he writhed beneath me from the bed, and we fell together with a full but heavy crash upon the floor. With a fierce and terrible satisfaction I watched his face blacken and swell, his tongue thicken and protrude from his ghastly open mouth. Before, however, I could kill him, a warning step and a loud cry sounded from the door. Quick as lightning I sprang erect and turned. The negro surgeon, Beudant, Jussieu's companion, was rushing towards me, an uplifted bar of iron in his hand to strike. I eluded him, and, springing to the fireplace, seized a poker. I had quite forgotten my revolver. For a moment we fenced like swordsmen with our curious weapons, speaking no word, but striking heavily and warding, filling the place with the loud clang of steel. He played so well that I could not reach his skull. But soon I remembered having read in some old book of travel that a negro's vulnerable point is his shin. Clenching my teeth I made a ferocious feint at his head. He riposted, as with a rapier, at my shoulder, but I disregarded utterly so poor a thrust, since his bar was blunt, and I brought my weapon down with a sweeping swish across his outstretched knee. He uttered a wild shriek and, dropping his bar, sank to the floor, howling dismally. Only then I remembered my pistol. Snatching it forth I held it to his head. "Stop that noise, or die!" I muttered savagely. He obeyed, but not for longer than a second was I permitted to remain master of the situation.
"Drop that pistol, villain," cried a voice from the doorway.
Two men had entered the room before I was aware of it, Dr. Vernet and Dr. Fulton. Dr. Vernet wore a shortish nightgown, from beneath which his lean, attenuated shanks humorously twinkled. He seemed extremely excited, and he moved the weight of his body from one foot to the other constantly and very quickly. Dr. Fulton was attired in a suit of pyjamas, and he too was excited, though he showed it less reservelessly. Both men were armed with revolvers, which they pointed at my breast. Glancing down the muzzles of their weapons, I allowed my own to drop to the floor. It would have been madness to do otherwise. Strange to relate, at that instant, I became once more my own master. The malignant spirit of unreasoning hate, which had so far governed my conduct, of a sudden left me, and I was able to realize to the full the mad folly into which it had driven me. My captors had only to hand me over to the police as an apprehended housebreaker—an attempted assassin, and nothing that I might do could save me from a long term of imprisonment. My very spine went cold at the idea. I looked hard at Dr. Fulton, and saw that he was on the point of recognizing me.
"Why, it's Brown, Dagmar's valet!"
I had an inspiration. "Better any fate," thought I, "than a French prison."
"Detective Hume of Scotland Yard!" I cried. "Dr. Fulton, I arrest you in the King's name! Better put down that pistol, sir, your game is up. The street is full of my men. And if I do not go out to them in the next few minutes they will come for me."
"Liar!" gasped a choking voice. Sir Charles Venner had spoken. He had recovered consciousness, and as he uttered the word he struggled to his feet.
"Liar yourself!" I retorted desperately. "If you don't believe me, look out of the window."
I had a wild hope that the noise of my struggle with Beudant might have attracted the attention of some chance wayfarers, whom my enemies might perhaps mistake for police. Sir Charles caught up my revolver, cocked it leisurely, and pointed it to my head.
"Look out of the window, Fulton," he said quietly.
Dr. Fulton crossed the room and, drawing aside a corner of the curtain, peered through the shutter into the street below.
While I waited for Dr. Fulton's pronouncement, I had a moment of grace in which to think and pull myself together. The latter I effected fairly well, but the knowledge of my recent madness obsessed my mind to the exclusion of every other thought and filled my soul with bitter self-contempt. I felt that I did not deserve to escape.
Dr. Fulton presently let the curtain fall and turned to Sir Charles. "There are four men standing on the pavement looking up at the top windows," he announced.
Sir Charles Venner nodded, and for a few seconds stood blinking his eyes in earnest thought.
"Beudant!" he cried at last.
"Monsieu!" replied the negro.
"Where is Jussieu?"
"He has not yet returned, monsieur."
"Ah, ha! I see! He has either betrayed us or been victimised. Beudant—a rope."
Beudant bowed and hurried from the room.
"What would you do?" demanded Dr. Vernet.
Sir Charles shrugged his shoulders and cocked his revolver. "We must quit Paris, or die in the attempt," he replied. "Mr. Hume, if you wish to live, you will be silent. Fulton, look out of the windows again."
Dr. Fulton obeyed. "I can no longer see any one," he reported.
Sir Charles suppressed a curse. "They must be on the steps, perhaps entering," he muttered. "Ah, Beudant! Thank heaven! Bind him, Beudant. Wait, my friends."
Even while speaking he left the room. The negro passed a rope around my arms and in a trice I was secured. I was wondering keenly what next would happen, when of a sudden I heard a loud swishing, creaking sound, as though a crane were at work in the corridor without. The groaning of wheels and chains was succeeded swiftly with a dull, muffled crash, and a second later Sir Charles returned.
"Dress quickly!" he cried to his friends. "We have not a minute to lose. I have settled some of them by springing the staircase trap, but the street door is open, and there may be others."
He set the example himself by pulling on his clothes with extraordinary rapidity. Vernet and Fulton darted off, and I was left in the care of Beudant, the only one who was completely attired. If my arms had been free, I would have tried conclusions with the negro. As it was, I helplessly waited, gnawing my lip and silently cursing at my folly. At the end of a few minutes a bell began to tinkle in a distant portion of the house. Sir Charles Venner started at the sound, and paused for a moment, intently listening. The bell rang again. Sir Charles threw a cloak across his shoulders and tip-toed to the door.
"Hola! within there," cried a raucous voice in French.
"All right!" shouted Sir Charles. "We'll be with you in a moment; wait!"
I smiled grimly. For I understood, while my enemy did not. Some passing policeman, observing the street door open, had rung the bell in order to inform the household of its carelessness. Sir Charles Vernier, however, believed that one of my agents had called out to his confrères, who had already entered. A moment later Vernet and Fulton reappeared, dressed as though for a journey. Sir Charles then stepped behind me and put his pistol to my ear. "Allons!" he muttered, "and tread softly, if you wish to live."
Obeying the guidance of a heavy hand that gripped my shoulder, I marched from the room and began to climb the staircase towards the third storey. The whole house was now wrapped in impenetrable darkness. My captors, however, appeared to know the way very well, and I was forced without a pause along a maze of corridors, until we were brought up by a wall. A match was cautiously struck, and we entered a small unfurnished room, the door of which was locked behind us. In the middle of this apartment was a ladder that communicated with the roof. Beudant climbed it with the agility of a monkey and raised a trap in the skylight, through which we all passed in quick succession. As I emerged and stood erect, I saw a sight I shall not easily forget—the magnificent panorama of sleeping Paris. And yet Paris did not seem to sleep. True, the night was dark, but in whatever direction I glanced, I was confronted with myriads of twinkling lamps that gleamed at me like so many intelligent and baneful little eyes. I was given but little time to digest the picture. Before the muzzle of Sir Charles Venner's revolver I crossed a slightly sloping roof of lead, and stepped over a knee-high parapet of stone. Thence we traversed the tops of three other houses and came at length to a slightly lower edifice, which required some care to reach. Beudant slipped over first, and I was bodily lifted up by Fulton and Venner and dropped into his arms. The roof perilously sloped, and the journey filled me with tremors, for a mis-step meant such a destruction as is entailed by a fall of sixty feet upon a line of iron-spiked railings. But death faced me on every side, so I set my lips and strode forward. By great good hap I negotiated the pass in safety, and came to a small, square ledge that was faced with an attic door, covered with a tiny gabled roof. A moment later we were all standing in a long low ceiled chamber, into which we had been admitted by a hideous old beldame. This creature received us with chuckles of sardonic satisfaction, and at once began to haggle with Sir Charles Venner for a large sum of money which she claimed to be her due. He tried to silence her by offering half the amount demanded, but she indignantly declined and threatened to scream. He therefore yielded and gave her his purse. But while she counted the money he turned his back, and taking a phial from his pocket poured its contents on his handkerchief. At a sign Beudant took the handkerchief, and, throwing himself upon the old hag, pressed it tightly to her nostrils. She struggled like a fury, but the negro mastered her, and very soon afterwards she was lying insensible upon the floor. I was watching Sir Charles wrest from her clenched hand his purse, when a terrible blow on my skull deprived me of consciousness.
When I awoke I thought at first I must have died in my sleep and have been thrust into hell. Every fibre of my being was racked with pain. Darkness encompassed me. With every breath I drew I was sickened with noxious odours, and I could not move a muscle. I tried to cry out, but could not utter a sound. An iron wedge had been driven deep into my mouth. My limbs were bound, and I was tightly enclosed, in a doubled-up position, in a square box. I lay upon my back and my knees were trussed up across my chest so that my chin almost touched them. I discovered these details slowly, one by one, and gradually awoke to the fact that I was still alive. For a little while I was glad to know that, but with the passing hours I prayed for death to end my tortures. Sometimes I swooned. On awakening I invariably heard a monotonous rumbling sound that was occasionally relieved by long, shrill screams. It occurred to me at last that I was being borne along upon a cart, the axles of which badly needed oiling. I had at first mistaken their screaming for the lamentations of lost souls. Thirst was my greatest agony. It always increased, while my other pains with time grew numb. Each time I fainted I hailed the swoon as kindly coming death, and for a brief moment I was happy. My recoveries were accursed periods of anguish. But I think my trances of insensibility grew ever longer as my strength wore out. However that may be, I began at length to dream, and I ceased to be able to distinguish between sleeping and waking or even to feel much pain. Then all of a sudden I felt a rush of cool air on my brow, and I looked up into a sky full of stars. Water was dashed on my face. The gag was taken from my mouth and I was given to drink. Someone clutched my arm and I shrieked aloud. I was forced, still shrieking, to my feet, and dragged by those I could not see through a plantation of tall and stately pines. I swooned again. And once more I awoke to find myself lying fully dressed, but free, upon a bed of down in a cool and pleasant room. It was morning. Through an open window near my couch I could see a wilderness of distant tree tops, larches, pines, and firs, and more dimly between and above their branches a range of hills beyond. A slant bar of sunlight streamed into my chamber and, falling on the floor a dozen feet away, marked out a golden pattern on the carpet. Against the farther wall was a book-case filled with volumes and an escritoire. A comfortable lounge chair stood near the bed. I saw also a heavy mahogany clothes press that was furnished with mirror-backed doors. So totally unprepared was I to encounter so gentle an experience that I rubbed my eyes to make sure that I was not still dreaming. The exercise obliged me to discover that my limbs were frightfully stiff and cramped. I was not long content, however, to allow my curiosity to remain unsatisfied. By dint of a good deal of exertion, and at the expense of many a sharp thrill of pain, I climbed from the bed and essayed to rise. After a few thoughts I succeeded, and then feeling dizzy, I managed to totter to a chair. I had hardly sat down when the door opened and Sir Charles Venner stood before me.
"Good morning, Mr. Hume," said he, in quite a genial voice. "I am glad to find you so much better after your distressing journey here!"
"Are you?" I muttered stupidly. I was overcome with surprise at his curious change of manner.
"Indeed, yes," he replied, and he smiled. "Do you feel well enough for breakfast?"
I nodded.
"Then permit me to assist you. Ah, good! Now take my arm."
He helped me, dumb with astonishment, out of the room and along a passage into a fine old dining-hall, that might have been part and parcel of some medieval chateau, so quaintly and elegantly was it furnished.
I could afford it no more than a glance, however, for seated at table there were Dr. Fulton, Dr. Venner, and Marion Le Mar, now Lady Dagmar.
At the sight of the beautiful woman whom I had so passionately loved, I cried out loudly, and stood still. Her face was pale. She was attired in deep mourning, and her eyes were resolutely downcast.
Sir Charles Venner uttered a low, cynical little laugh. "Quite a meeting of the clans!" he remarked. "But come, Hume, I am certain you are hungry."
Leaning heavily on his arm, I staggered to the table and sank into a chair.
"Marion!" I gasped, looking at her straight and full.
Very slowly she raised her eyes, and returned my glance with a look of cold disdain.
I thought her a thief and a traitress, and yet my eyes fell before her gaze.
"Will you try some oatmeal, Hume?" asked Sir Charles Venner, who had taken the head of the table.
"No, thank you."
"Then, some ham and eggs?"
"Please."
Beudant entered the room. "The grave is dug, master," he announced.
I looked at Sir Charles. He was biting his under lip, and curiously regarding me.
"Whose?" I demanded.
"Yours and Lady Dagmar's!" he replied with a sneer.
I looked at Marion. She was calmly eating her breakfast.
"This is some ghastly joke!" I cried.
Marion glanced up and smiled. "Say cynical, monsieur," she murmured quietly. "My good friend, Sir Charles Venner, persists in believing that we love each other—you and I—in spite of the fact that scarcely a month ago I deserted you in order to marry Sir William Dagmar."
"On his death-bed, madame!" cut in Sir Charles, in tones of ice. "You forget that you are now a rich young widow."
"Well, sir?"
"And that you have steadily refused to account to me for his money, which should have been placed, long ere this, at the disposal of our order."
"Sir William Dagmar bound me with an oath as he lay dying——"
"You have told me that story before," interrupted Sir Charles. Marion shrugged her shoulders, and put into her mouth a morsel of bread.
"Go on someone!" I cried impatiently. "See! I am utterly in your power. Why not enlighten me? Surely you are not afraid!"
Beudant placed beside my plate a cup of coffee.
Sir Charles coughed behind his hand. "I am only afraid that your appetite may be spoiled," he observed.
"Not at all," I retorted. "Watch me!" I began to eat, for in truth I was very hungry.
"We shall see," he rejoined. "You have a nerve, I know, but keep on eating while I talk—if you can!"
I nodded.
"Jussieu was released last evening by a friend of yours, a little man named Du Gazet, who induced the manager of your hotel to break into your room."
"Well?" I gasped.
Sir Charles laughed. "Jussieu is here," he said. "He arrived two hours ago, and we know now that you have no connection with the police. We were fools indeed to allow you to frighten us away from the Rue D'Enghien. But then everything always happens for the best. We could hardly have disposed of you properly in the city, unless we prosecuted you for burglary, and such a course would not have suited me."
"Do you intend to kill me?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"After breakfast."
"In broad daylight?" I asked, much astonished.
"Ah! Mr. Hume," he replied, "I read your mind. But this chateau is placed in a wood, and is distant seven miles from the nearest human habitation, and as for the rest I had as lief destroy an enemy by day as by night."
"Then I have not long to live?"
"As one measures time."
"And—Mar—Lady Dagmar?"
"You will die together. In each other's arms, if you choose to be romantic."
I turned to Marion, to find her eyes fixed upon my face. We gazed at each other for a long silent minute, and then, overcome by some strange emotion, I muttered brokenly, "Is it possible, after all, that I have wronged you?"
"You have," she replied.
"Can you forgive me?" I asked hoarsely.
"It is late to make amends."
"I was mad to doubt you. But, God knows, I suffered for it, Marion."
"Venner!" said Dr. Fulton suddenly, "can I have a word with you?"
"Certainly. Vernet, Beudant, I leave our guests to you."
Sir Charles got up from the table and walked to the farther end of the room.
"They will not kill you, Marion?" I asked in English. "Surely they are jesting."
"Yes—and no," she said. "Last night they forced me to make a will leaving them my money. They tortured me."
"How?" I gasped.
"They dragged me to the room where you lay bound and senseless. If I had refused to obey they would have cut you into pieces before my eyes."
"My God!" I cried. "And that broke your will. But I would have deserved it all for doubting you."
"Not quite," she answered, and she smiled in exceeding sadness.
"Marion, dear Marion," I whispered, "you love me still."
She looked up at me and her eyes filled with tears. "How could you treat me so?" she muttered.
I felt the blood rush of a sudden through my veins, singing a veritable poem of joy and triumph. We were both about to die, but Marion loved me, and by that knowledge I was transformed on the instant from a weak half-broken creature into a life-loving and most desperate man. I glanced quietly about me.
While Dr. Vernet ate his breakfast he watched me, but without manifesting suspicion. Beudant stood behind his chair. Sir Charles and Fulton were in earnest converse twenty paces off.
I thought to myself: "I may never get a better chance. Only a coward will permit himself to be slaughtered unresisting.
"Beudant," said I aloud, "will you be good enough to get me another cup of coffee."
The negro nodded, and started to come round the table.
"Dr. Vernet," I said as carelessly as possible, "may I trouble you for the pepper-pot beside you?"
He bowed, and stretched out in order to render me the indicated service. In a flash I had caught his wrist in my left hand, and with my right I seized a heavy carafe of water and hurled it at his head. Next second I leaped across the table, caught him in my arms, when, guided by Vernet's own instinctive clutch to arm himself, I plunged my hand into his breast pocket and found a revolver.
I slipped to the floor and held the stunned and senseless body of Dr. Vernet before me as a shield. Sir Charles Venner and Dr. Fulton were already advancing towards me with drawn pistols.
"Stop!" I shouted.
Sir Charles Venner answered me with his revolver. The bullet crashed into Dr. Vernet's brain and I felt my face spattered with blood. I fired in return, and Dr. Fulton, uttering a frightful scream, pitched headlong on the floor.
It was a bad shot, for I had fired at Sir Charles Venner.
For a moment thereafter the latter stood still, and we stared into each other's eyes across the trail of smoke. I became conscious that Dr. Vernet's dead body was too heavy for me to support longer. It was slipping from my grasp, slipping, slipping. I realized that very soon I should be without my shield. As at last it fell, I fired, twice in quick succession. I heard an answering shot, then a woman's piercing scream. I fired again. The room was by then full of smoke; I could see nothing, but I heard someone rushing towards me shouting and cursing. For a fifth time I fired. There followed the sound of a fall, then a deep and dreadful silence. I waited with my revolver at full cock, not daring to breathe, my every nerve on strain, listening and peering vainly through the pall of smoke. Very slowly and gradually the white mist lifted. At my feet the woman I loved was lying very still. Blood was welling in a rich crimson stream from a wound in her breast. Beyond her Sir Charles Venner lay face downwards on the floor. Both his arms were extended at full length, and at a few inches from his clenched right hand was his revolver. Beudant and Dr. Fulton lay beside Sir Charles Venner's body. All seemed dead. Oppressed with a wild and hideous sense of unreality, I stared stupidly before me. A smoke wreath, growing transparent, showed me at length a living face. Jussieu stood within the room, a black statue of horror. Scarcely conscious of what I did, I raised my pistol and pointed it at his breast. He did not move. I fired and he fell.
"Jussieu stood within the room, a black statue of horror."
At the sound Marion's eyes opened. She looked up at me. I uttered a cry of agony and, throwing away my smoking weapon, I sank on my knees beside her.
"Are you hurt?" she breathed.
"No—no—but you—you are wounded—you are dying," I wailed.
She gave me a most wonderful and tender smile. "For you," she gasped. "To save you! He would have killed you—but his bullet is—here." With a great effort she raised one hand and caught at her breast.
"Oh, God! oh, God!" I groaned. "Marion, you will not die and leave me! Tell me what to do."
"Kiss me," she whispered.
But even as I stooped to obey, her spirit fled, and I kissed the lips of a corpse. No other kiss shall my lips know while I have life.
At the fall of noon I carried her from the house of death and buried her in the grave which Sir Charles Venner had destined for us both. It was in the middle of a pine forest, and perhaps that is why the saddest sound on earth to my ears is still the sighing of pines. I left the bodies of my enemies where they had fallen—accursed carrion! I would not have touched them if I could. They were not discovered until more than a week had passed, and by then I was a thousand miles away, a desolate and broken-hearted wanderer on the face of the universe. Many years have passed and I am now a millionaire, accounted by the world a hard-headed, flinty-hearted financial magnate, and also something of a misogynist. But I have recorded these chapters of my history to show those who come after me, when I am dead, that, rascal as I was, and abandonedly selfish, I was yet capable of passion and of constancy, and that no deep-seated hatred of the softer sex has inspired the invincible solitariness of my life.
FINIS.
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.
Ward, Lock & Co.'s
POPULAR FICTION
STANLEY WEYMAN
MY LADY ROTHA.
A Romance of the Thirty Years War.
The Saturday Review says:—"No one who begins will lay it down before the end, it is so extremely well carried on from adventure to adventure."
ANTHONY HOPE
COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP.
The Speaker says:—"In this volume Mr. Hope is at his happiest in that particular department of fiction in which he reigns supreme."
HALF A HERO.
The Athenæum says:—"Mr. Hope's best story in point of construction and grasp of subject. His dialogue is virile and brisk."
MR. WITT'S WIDOW.
The Times says:—"In truth a brilliant tale."
A. E. W. MASON
LAWRENCE CLAVERING.
SIR A. CONAN DOYLE
A STUDY IN SCARLET.
With a note on Sherlock Holmes by Dr. Joseph Bell. Illustrations by George Hutchinson.
H. RIDER HAGGARD
AYESHA.
The Sequel to "She." Thirty-two full-page illustrations by Maurice Greiffenhagen.
S. R. CROCKETT
JOAN OF THE SWORD HAND.
The Daily Mail says:—"A triumph of cheery, resolute narration. The story goes along like a wave, and the reader with it."
STRONG MAC.
The Morning Post says:—"At the very outset the reader is introduced to the two leading characters of what is truly a drama of real life. So vividly is the story told that it often reads like a narrative of things that have actually happened."
LITTLE ESSON.
The Scarborough Post says:—"One of the most popular of Mr. Crockett's books since 'Lilac Sunbonnet.'"
The Newcastle Journal says:—"The book is one to read with great enjoyment. It is a true Crockett in every respect."
MAX PEMBERTON
PRO PATRIA.
The Liverpool Mercury says:—"A fine and distinguished piece of imaginative writing; one that should shed a new lustre upon the clever author of 'Kronstadt.'"
CHRISTINE OF THE HILLS.
The Daily Mail says:—"Assuredly he has never written anything more fresh, more simple, more alluring, or more artistically perfect."
A GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN.
The Daily Chronicle says:—"This is very much the best book Mr. Pemberton has so far given us."
THE GOLD WOLF.
The Illustrated London News says:—"From the beginning Mr. Pemberton weaves his romance with such skill that the tangled skein remains for long unravelled ... marked by exceptional power, and holds the attention firmly."
THE LODESTAR.
The Standard:—"'The Lodestar' impresses us as an exceedingly poignant and effective story, true to real life. Written with cleverness and charm."
E. F. BENSON
LIMITATIONS.
JAMES BLYTH
A HAZARDOUS WOOING.
The Morning Leader says:—"A rattling good yarn of a kind which many writers of historical novels might envy."
The Scotsman says:—"Delightful reading from beginning to end."
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
CONSPIRATORS.
With Illustrations by A. Wallis Mills.
THE SECRET.
The Standard says:—"We have no hesitation in saying that this is the finest and most absorbing story that Mr. Oppenheim has ever written. It glows with feeling; it is curiously fertile in character and incident, and it works its way onward to a most remarkable climax."
A LOST LEADER.
The Daily Graphic says:—"Mr. Oppenheim almost persuades us into the belief that he has really been able to break down the wall of secrecy which always surrounds the construction of a Cabinet, and has decided to make an exposure on the lines of a well-known American writer. He also touches upon the evils of gambling in Society circles in a manner which should be applauded by Father Vaughan, and, in addition, treats us to a romance which is full of originality and interest from first to last."
MR. WINGRAVE, MILLIONAIRE.
The British Weekly says:—"Like good wine, Mr. Oppenheim's novels need no bush. They attract by their own charm, and are unrivalled in popularity. No one will read this present story without relishing the rapid succession of thrilling scenes through which his characters move. There is a freshness and unconventionality about the story that lends it unusual attractiveness."
A MAKER OF HISTORY.
The Standard says:—"Those who read 'A Maker of History' will revel in the plot, and will enjoy all those numerous deft touches of actuality that have gone to make the story genuinely interesting and exciting."
THE MASTER MUMMER.
The Dundee Advertiser says:—"'The Master Mummer' is a remarkable novel, such as only E. Phillips Oppenheim can write. No other author could make the wildly extravagant not only natural, as make-believe goes, but actually moving. It is a beautiful story that is here set within a story."
THE BETRAYAL.
The Dundee Advertiser says:—"Mr. Oppenheim's skill has never been displayed to better advantage than here.... He has excelled himself, and to assert this is to declare the novel superior to nine out of ten of its contemporaries."
ANNA, THE ADVENTURESS.
The Globe says:—"The story is ingeniously imagined and cleverly wrought out. Mr. Oppenheim has the gift of invention, and keeps his readers on the tenter-hooks of suspense."
THE YELLOW CRAYON.
The Daily Express says:—"Mr. Oppenheim has a vivid imagination and much sympathy, fine powers of narrative, and can suggest a life history in a sentence. As a painter of the rough life of mining camps, of any strong and striking scenes where animal passions enter, he is as good as Henry Kingsley, with whom, indeed, in many respects, he has strong points of resemblance."
A PRINCE OF SINNERS.
Vanity Fair says:—"A vivid and powerful story. Mr. Oppenheim knows the world and he can tell a tale, and the unusual nature of the setting in which his leading characters live and work out their love story, gives this book distinction among the novels of the season."
THE TRAITORS.
The Athenæum says:—"Its interest begins on the first page and ends on the last. The plot is ingenious and well managed, the movement of the story is admirably swift and smooth, and the characters are exceedingly vivacious. The reader's excitement is kept on the stretch to the very end."
A MILLIONAIRE OF YESTERDAY.
The Daily Telegraph says:—"The story abounds in dramatic situations, and there is more than one note of pathos which at once captures our sympathies. We cannot but welcome with enthusiasm a really well-told story like 'A Millionaire of Yesterday.'"
THE SURVIVOR.
The Nottingham Guardian says:—"We must give a conspicuous place on its merits to this excellent story. It is only necessary to read a page or two in order to become deeply interested. A story marked by brilliant and terse narration, vivid touches of characterization, and a plot that is consistent and yet fruitful in surprises."
THE GREAT AWAKENING.
The Yorkshire Post says:—"A weird and fascinating story, which, for real beauty and originality, ranks far above the ordinary novel."
AS A MAN LIVES.
The Sketch says:—"The interest of the book, always keen and absorbing, is due to some extent to a puzzle so admirably planned as to defy the penetration of the most experienced novel reader."
A DAUGHTER OF THE MARIONIS.
The Scotsman says:—"Mr. Oppenheim's stories always display much melodramatic power and considerable originality and ingenuity of construction. These and other qualities of the successful writer of romance are manifest in 'A Daughter of the Marionis.' Full of passion, action, strongly contrasted scenery, motives, and situations."
MR. BERNARD BROWN.
The Aberdeen Daily Journal says:—"The story is rich in sensational incident and dramatic situations. It is seldom, indeed, that we meet with a novel of such power and fascination."
THE MAN AND HIS KINGDOM.
The Freeman's Journal says:—"It is high praise to say that in this novel the author has surpassed his previous thrilling and delightful story, 'The Mysterious Mr. Sabin.' Yet that high praise is eminently deserved. The story is worthy of Merriman at his very best. It is a genuine treat for the ravenous and often disappointed novel reader."
THE WORLD'S GREAT SNARE.
The World says:—"If engrossing interest, changing episode, deep insight into human character, and bright diction are the sine qua non of a successful novel, then this book cannot but bound at once into popular favour. It is so full withal of so many dramatic incidents, thoroughly exciting and realistic. There is not one dull page from beginning to end."
A MONK OF CRUTA.
The Bookman says:—"Intensely dramatic. The book is an achievement at which the author may well be gratified."
MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN.
The Literary World says:—"As a story of interest, with a deep-laid and exciting plot, this of the 'Mysterious Mr. Sabin' can hardly be surpassed."
L. G. MOBERLY
THAT PREPOSTEROUS WILL.
The Daily Graphic says:—"We could wish that every novel were as pleasant, unsophisticated and readable as this one."
HOPE, MY WIFE.
The Gentlewoman says:—"Miss Moberly shows the same nice skill In sketching character in 'Hope, my Wife' as in her earlier novel, 'That Preposterous Will.' She interests us so much in her heroine, and in her hero, that we follow the two with pleasure through adventures of the most improbable order."
DIANA.
The Scotsman says:—"So cleverly handled as to keep its interest always lively and stimulating; and the book cannot fail to be enjoyed."
DAN—AND ANOTHER.
The Daily News:—"Must be considered one of the best pieces of work that Miss Moberly has yet produced."
JUSTUS MILES FORMAN
JOURNEYS END.
The Court Journal says:—"Surprisingly fresh, abounding in touches of observation and sentiment, while the characters are drawn with exceptional skill, the 'red-haired young woman' being a haunting figure."
MONSIGNY.
The Daily Telegraph says:—"The novel is admirable, the idea is very cleverly worked out, and is of an interesting character. The book is worthy of much praise."
THE GARDEN OF LIES.
The Daily News says:—"This novel is far in advance of anything that Mr. Forman has hitherto accomplished. 'The Garden of Lies' belongs to that class of story which touches the heart from the first. It contains scenes which are alive with real passion, passages that will stir the blood of the coldest, and whole chapters charged with a magic and a charm. It is a real romance, full of vigour and a clean, healthy life."
TOMMY CARTERET.
The Daily Chronicle says:—"This is a fine book, thoroughly fine from start to finish. We willingly place our full store of compliments on Mr. Forman's splendid and successful book."
BUCHANAN'S WIFE.
The Daily Telegraph says:—"'Buchanan's Wife' may be regarded as another success for an already successful author. It contains all the reader is to attract, and is written in such a graceful manner that the elements held delighted and enthralled to the end."
A MODERN ULYSSES.
People's Saturday Journal says:—"Full of exciting incidents, handled in a bright, crisp style."
GEORGE FREDERIC TURNER
FROST AND FRIENDSHIP.
The Pall Mall Gazette says:—"A tale one reads without effort and rises from with brightened wits. It is good and original. King Karl, with the steel hand in a velvet glove; Miss Anchester, an enigma of love and duty; and the hero himself, a typical Englishman, are personages who make a sharp impression of reality."
THE CONVERSION OF CLAUD.
The Daily Graphic says:—"A well-written book, the characters are natural and amusing."
THE TOAD AND THE AMAZON.
ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT
WHEN I WAS CZAR.
The Freeman's Journal says:—"A very brilliant work, every page in it displays the dramatic talent of the author and his capacity for writing smart dialogue."
BY SNARE OF LOVE.
The Outlook says:—"As a writer of political intrigue, Mr. Marchmont has scarcely a rival to-day, and his latest novel worthily upholds his reputation."
THE QUEEN'S ADVOCATE.
The Liverpool Courier says:—"Mr. Marchmont's narrative skill is at his best in this tale. One has sometimes wondered in reading this author's works when his invention will give out. But his resource seems inexhaustible, and his spirits never flag."
A COURIER OF FORTUNE.
The Dundee Courier says:—"The author has succeeded in producing a most thrilling and romantic tale of France, which has the advantage of being exciting and fascinating without being too improbable. An additional feature of the book is the amount of wit that runs throughout the story."
BY WIT OF WOMAN.
The Leicester Post says:—"The novel rivets the deep interest of the reader, and holds it spellbound to the end. Mr. Marchmont, accordingly, must be complimented on making a very welcome and notable addition to the library of fiction."
IN THE CAUSE OF FREEDOM.
The Daily Telegraph says:—"A well-sustained and thrilling narrative."
The Daily Express says:—"It is sure to have a great success."
THE LITTLE ANARCHIST.
GEORGE HORTON
A FAIR INSURGENT.
The Daily Telegraph says:—"Mr. George Horton has given us a most thrilling romance which, both in invention and workmanship, should take high rank among books of adventure. The author has the power of exciting real interest in the puppets of his capital book, and the art of telling an exciting story thoroughly well."
PRINCESS ROMANOVA.
The Dundee Advertiser says:—"A stirring tale of the Far East, full of adventures, narrated in an impressive style."
THE MONK'S TREASURE.
FRED M. WHITE
THE CRIMSON BLIND.
The Sheffield Telegraph:—"'The Crimson Blind' is one of the most ingeniously conceived 'detective' stories we have come across for a long time. Each chapter holds some new and separate excitement. The pace is kept with such vigour that the reader arrives breathless at the last page."
THE CARDINAL MOTH.
The British Weekly:—"A brilliant orchid story, full of imaginative power. This is a masterpiece of construction, convincing amid its unlikeliness, one of the best novels of the season."
THE CORNER HOUSE.
The Western Morning News:—"The secret of 'The Corner House' is kept until the closing chapters, and it is impossible to lay the book aside until the secret is discovered. It is an excellent romance which will be eagerly read."
THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN.
The Dublin Daily Express:—"Mr. F. M. White is one of the princes of fiction. A stirring tale full of the spice of adventure, breathless in interest, skilful in narrative.... Who could refrain from reading such a story?"
THE SLAVE OF SILENCE.
The Sheffield Telegraph:—"Attention is arrested at the outset, and so adroitly is the mystery handled that readers will not skip a single page."
A FATAL DOSE.
Irish Independent:—"A work in Mr. White's best style, so brimful of action and excitement that the reader would fain finish it at a sitting if possible."
ARCHIBALD EYRE
THE TRIFLER.
The Daily Express:—"A most cleverly contrived farcical comedy full of really fresh incidents, and a dialogue that is genuinely amusing; there is not a character who is not always welcome and full of entertainment."
THE CUSTODIAN.
The Morning Post:—"An exceptionally clever and entertaining novel; the reader is compelled to finish the book when he has once taken it up.... It is impossible to resist its attractions."
THE GIRL IN WAITING.
The Daily Mail:—"This is quite a delightful book. The note is struck ingeniously and hilariously on the doorstep. It is a most enjoyable comedy, which must be read to be appreciated. We can cordially recommend it."
HEADON HILL
A RACE WITH RUIN.
The Morning Advertiser says:—"A book by Headon Hill may always be relied on to provide good reading with plenty of incident. In 'A Race with Ruin' he fully maintains his reputation. A good, stirring story with an admirable and well-worked-out plot."
MILLIONS OF MISCHIEF.
The Stage says:—"Not even the late Guy Boothby imagined anything more magnificently preposterous than the motive of Mr. Headon Hill's 'Millions of Mischief.'"
THE AVENGERS.
The Tribune says:—"Mr. Hill's new book, 'The Avengers,' has not a dull line, and one's pulse is kept on the jig all the time."
UNMASKED AT LAST.
The Sheffield Telegraph says:—"The story is in the author's most approved style, one of those alluringly audacious plots that Headon Hill revels in."
THE HIDDEN VICTIM.
SIR Wm. MAGNAY, BART.
THE RED CHANCELLOR.
Lloyd's News says:—"A story full of action, with its characters strongly drawn. The book altogether is one that can be most heartily recommended."
THE MAN OF THE HOUR.
The Pall Mall Gazette says:—"Of sterling merit. The plot of the book is as well contrived as in any tale of the kind we have read."
COUNT ZARKA.
The World says:—"Clever and entertaining. The narrative is brisk; it affords us glimpses of forest scenery which we like, and one remarkable departure from beaten tracks, a woman's duel in earnest. This feat of arms forms the subject of an illustration in his best manner by Maurice Grieffenhagen."
FAUCONBERG.
The Field says:—"The book has a grip, and should be a success. The ultimate fate of Fauconberg is always in doubt from the beginning to the unexpected ending."
THE MASTER SPIRIT.
The Court Journal says:—"A capital story. The intensely interesting situation is developed with much ingenuity and power.... A really fascinating novel."
THE MYSTERY OF THE UNICORN.
GUY BOOTHBY
THE RACE OF LIFE.
The English Review says:—"Ahead even of Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne and Sir Conan Doyle, Mr. Boothby may be said to have topped popularity's pole."
FOR LOVE OF HER.
The Court Journal says:—"The many admirers of Mr. Guy Boothby will welcome another volume from his pen, and will not be disappointed in their expectations. The book shows vivid imagination and dramatic power. Moreover, sketches of Australian life, from one who knows his subject, are always welcome."
A CRIME OF THE UNDER SEAS.
The Speaker says:—"Is quite the equal in art, observation, and dramatic intensity to any of Mr. Guy Boothby's numerous other romances, and is in every respect most typical of his powers."
A BID FOR FREEDOM.
The Sheffield Telegraph says:—"As fascinating as any of its forerunners, and is as finely handled. 'A Bid for Freedom' discloses a powerfully written romance, which bristles with thrilling passages, exciting adventures, and hairbreadth escapes."
A TWO-FOLD INHERITANCE.
Punch says:—"Just the very book that a hard-working man should read for genuine relaxation. This novel is strongly recommended by the justly appreciating 'Baron de Bookworms.'"
The Glasgow Herald says:—"Contains all the elements that have made Mr. Boothby's works popular the world over, and it will be read with zest by thousands of his admirers."
CONNIE BURT.
The Birmingham Gazette says:—"One of the best stories we have seen of Mr. Boothby's."
The Glasgow Herald says:—"Contains many stirring scenes of life in the Bush, and some really clever and attractive sketches of Australian character."
THE KIDNAPPED PRESIDENT.
Public Opinion says:—"Brighter, crisper, and more entertaining than any of its predecessors from the same pen."
MY STRANGEST CASE.
The Yorkshire Post says:—"No work of Mr. Boothby's seems to us to have approached in skill his new story. It is worked out with real ingenuity, and written with so much skill that the reader's attention is from first to last riveted on the narrative."
FAREWELL, NIKOLA.
The Dundee Advertiser says:—"Guy Boothby's famous creation of Dr. Nikola has become familiar to every reader of fiction."
MY INDIAN QUEEN.
The Sunday Special says:—"'My Indian Queen' shows Mr. Boothby at his best. A vivid story of adventure and daring, bearing all the characteristics of careful workmanship."
LONG LIVE THE KING.
The Aberdeen Free Press says:—"It is marvellous that Mr. Boothby's novels should all be so uniformly good. The story is written in Mr. Boothby's best style, and is full of interest from start to finish."
A PRINCE OF SWINDLERS.
The Scotsman says:—"Of absorbing interest. The exploits are described in an enthralling vein."
A MAKER OF NATIONS.
The Spectator says:—"'A Maker of Nations' enables us to understand Mr. Boothby's vogue. It has no lack of movement or incident."
THE RED RAT'S DAUGHTER
The Daily Telegraph says:—"Mr. Guy Boothby's name on the title-page of a novel carries with it the assurance of a good story to follow. This sprightly imaginative writer's latest romance is a clever and fascinating narrative."
LOVE MADE MANIFEST.
The Daily Telegraph says:—"A powerful and impressive romance. One of those tales of exciting adventure in the confection of which Mr. Boothby is not excelled by any novelist of the day."
PHAROS THE EGYPTIAN.
The Scotsman says:—"This powerful novel is weird, wonderful, and soul-thrilling. There never was in this world so strange and wonderful a love story, and Mr. Boothby's admirers will probably agree that the most marvellous fiction he has ever produced is 'Pharos the Egyptian.'"
ACROSS THE WORLD FOR A WIFE.
The British Weekly says:—"This stirring tale ranks next to 'Dr. Nikola' in the list of Mr. Boothby's novels. It is an excellent piece of workmanship, and we can heartily recommend it."
A SAILOR'S BRIDE.
The Manchester Courier says:—"Few authors can depict action as brilliantly and resourcefully as the creator of 'Dr. Nikola.'"
THE LUST OF HATE.
The Daily Graphic says:—"Mr. Boothby gives place to no one in what might be called dramatic interest, so whoever wants dramatic interest let him read 'The Lust of Hate.'"
THE FASCINATION OF THE KING.
The Bristol Mercury says:—"Unquestionably the best work we have yet seen from the pen of Mr. Guy Boothby.... 'The Fascination of the King' is one of the books of the season."
DR. NIKOLA.
The Scotsman says:—"One hairbreadth escape succeeds another with rapidity that scarce leaves the reader breathing space.... The interest of their experience is sufficient to stay criticism, and carry him through a story ingeniously invented and skilfully told."
THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL.
The Yorkshire Post says:—"A more exciting romance no man could reasonably ask for."
A BID FOR FORTUNE.
The Manchester Courier says:—"It is impossible to give any idea of the verve and brightness with which the story is told. Mr. Boothby may be congratulated on having produced about the most original novel of the year."
IN STRANGE COMPANY.
The World says:—"A capital novel. It has the quality of life and stir, and will carry the reader with curiosity unabated to the end."
THE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER.
The Manchester Guardian says:—"A story full of action, life, and dramatic interest. There is a vigour and a power of illusion about it that raises it quite above the level of the ordinary novel of adventure."
BUSHIGRAMS.
The Manchester Guardian says:—"Intensely interesting. Forces from us, by its powerful artistic realism, those choky sensations which it should be the aim of the human writer to elicit, whether in comedy or tragedy."
SHEILAH McLEOD.
Mr. W. L. Alden in The New York Times, says:—"Mr. Boothby can crowd more adventure into a square foot of canvas than any other novelist."
DR. NIKOLA'S EXPERIMENT.
Illustrated by Sidney Cowell.
JOSEPH HOCKING
ROGER TREWINION.
T. P.'s Weekly says:—"It is a foregone conclusion that Mr. Hocking will always have a good story to tell. 'Roger Trewinion' can stand forth with the best, a strong love interest, plenty of adventure, an atmosphere of superstition, and Cornwall as the scene. And the scenes of lawlessness, the curse of hatred between two brothers, the greed of a selfish mother, and the steadfastness of a sweetheart withdrawn from a grave, all serve to lead, in a series of graphically and finely written scenes, to the conclusion that 'there's no curse can stand against love.'"
THE COMING OF THE KING.
The Glasgow Herald says:—"Mr. Hocking's latest romance exhibits no diminution of ability, and is marked by insight and dramatic power. His imagination is fertile, and his skill in the arrangement of incident far above the average, and there is an air of reality in all his writing which is peculiarly charming. The author steadily but surely engages our attention, and we pass from episode to episode with a deepening sense of the reality of the tale. This is art of no common order."
ESAU.
The Outlook says:—"Remarkable for the dramatic power with which the scenes are drawn and the intense human interest which Mr. Hocking has woven about his characters. 'Esau' is sure to be one of the novels of the season."
The British Weekly says:—"A brilliant, exciting narrative by a writer who has never penned a dull page."
GREATER LOVE.
The Newcastle Chronicle says:—"Though of a totally different character from 'Lest We Forget,' Mr. Hocking's latest story is entitled to take rank along with that fine romance. The story arrests the attention from the first chapters, and soon becomes highly dramatic."
LEST WE FORGET.
Public Opinion says:—"His story is quite as good as any we have read of the Stanley Weyman's school, and presents an excellent picture of the exciting times of Gardiner and Bonner."
AND SHALL TRELAWNEY DIE?
The British Weekly says:—"We can strongly recommend both stories as healthy and hearty tales, sensational but not incredible."
The Weekly Sun says:—"An engaging and fascinating romance. The reader puts the story down with a sigh, and wishes there were more of these breezy Cornish uplands, for Mr. Joseph Hocking's easy style of narrative does not soon tire."
JABEZ EASTERBROOK.
The Rock says:—"Real strength is shown in the sketches, of which that of Brother Bowman is most prominent. In its way it is delightful."
The Record says:—"A book that can be read with interest and with profit. A clever tale, cleverly told."
THE WEAPONS OF MYSTERY.
"Weapons of Mystery" is a singularly powerful story of occult influences and of their exertion for evil purposes. Like all Mr. Hocking's novels, "Weapons of Mystery" has an underlying religious and moral purpose, but merely as a story, and quite apart from the purpose which was in the mind of the author, the tale has a curious fascination for the reader. The cleverly conceived plot, and the strange experience of the hero and heroine make "Weapons of Mystery" a story which it is not easy to put down when once commenced.
ZILLAH: A ROMANCE.
The Spectator says:—"The drawing of some of the characters indicates the possession by Mr. Hocking of a considerable gift of humour. The contents of his book indicate that he takes a genuine interest in the deeper problems of the day."
THE MONK OF MAR-SABA.
The Star says:—"Great power and thrilling interest.... The scenery of the Holy Land has rarely been so vividly described as in this charming book of Mr. Hocking's."
The Manchester Guardian says:—"The author has turned his visit to Palestine to good account.... His descriptions of the wild scenery of different parts of the Holy Land are both vigorous and graphic, and the stories themselves are interesting."
THE PURPLE ROBE.
The Queen says:—"Mr. Hocking's most interesting romance. It is exceedingly clever, and excites the reader's interest and brings out the powerful nature of the clever young minister. This most engrossing book challenges comparison with the brilliance of Lothair. Mr. Hocking has one main fact always before him in writing his books—to interest his readers and he certainly succeeds admirably in doing so."
THE SCARLET WOMAN.
The Methodist Recorder says:—"This is Mr. Hocking's strongest and best book. We advise every one to read it. The plot is simple, compact and strenuous; the writing powerful. It brings out sharply the real character of the typical Jesuit, his training, motives, limitations, aims."
ALL MEN ARE LIARS.
The Christian World says:—"This is a notable book. Thoughtful people will be fascinated by its actuality, its fearlessness, and the insight it gives into the influence of modern thought and literature upon the minds and morals of our most promising manhood."
The Standard says:—"A striking book.... It is strong and earnest and vigorous; it shows knowledge of the lower class, and impatience and contempt of shams of all sorts."
ISHMAEL PENGELLY: AN OUTCAST.
The Record says:—"As a story this book is a splendid piece of writing; every detail is interesting, and the situations it creates are novel and striking."
The Athenæum says:—"The book is to be recommended for the dramatic effectiveness of some of the scenes. The wild, half-mad woman is always picturesque wherever she appears, and the rare self-repression of her son is admirably done."
THE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAX.
The Manchester Examiner says:—"Rustic scenes and characters are drawn with free, broad touches, without Mr. Buchanan's artificiality, and, if we may venture to say it, with more realism than Mr. Hardy's country pictures."
The Liverpool Mercury says:—"Beautifully told. There are few books better adapted to widen the mind and discipline the judgment than this noble story."
THE BIRTHRIGHT.
The Spectator says:—"This volume proves beyond all doubt that Mr. Hocking has mastered the art of the historical romancist. 'The Birthright' is, in its way, quite as well constructed, as well written, and as full of incident as any story that has come from the pen of Mr. Conan Doyle or Mr. Stanley Weyman."
MISTRESS NANCY MOLESWORTH.
The Scotsman says:—"'Mistress Nancy Molesworth' is as charming a story of the kind as could be wished, and it excels in literary workmanship as well as in imaginative vigour and daring invention.... It would hardly be possible to tell a story of its kind better, or to leave the reader better pleased at the end."
FIELDS OF FAIR RENOWN.
The Scotsman says:—"Mr. Joseph Hocking's 'Fields of Fair Renown' is a novel with a purpose, and the theme is worked out with a good deal of force and effective power.... it is both interesting and powerful."
The Dundee Advertiser says:—"Mr. Hocking has produced a work which his readers of all classes will appreciate.... There are exhibited some of the most beautiful aspects of disposition."
LOUIS TRACY
A FATAL LEGACY.
The Scotsman says:—"In all the annals of fiction a more ingenious or startlingly original plot has not been recorded."
RAINBOW ISLAND.
The Literary World says:—"Those who delight in tales of adventure should hail 'Rainbow Island' with joyous shouts of welcome. Rarely have we met with more satisfying fare of this description than in its pages."
THE ALBERT GATE AFFAIR.
The Birmingham Post says:—"An excellent detective tale, brimful of adventure. Told in Mr. Tracy's best style."
THE PILLAR OF LIGHT.
The Evening Standard says:—"So admirable, so living, so breathlessly exciting a book. The magnificent realism of the lighthouse and its perils, the intense conviction of the author, that brings the very scene he pictures before the reader's eyes with hardly a line of detached description, the interest of the terrible dilemma of the cut off inhabitants of the 'Pillar' are worthy of praise from the most jaded reader."
HEART'S DELIGHT.
The Dundee Advertiser says:—"The name of Louis Tracy on the covers of a volume is a sufficient guarantee that the contents are worthy of perusal. His latest novel, 'Heart's Delight,' establishes more firmly than ever the reputation which he founded on 'The Final War'; like that notable book it has a strong martial flavour."
A. C. GUNTER
'TWIXT SWORD AND GLOVE.
The Manchester Evening News says:—"It is with the utmost suspense that the reader will follow the adventurous and perilous career of Comte Bertram de Conflans.... A cleverly written book."
DOCTOR BURTON.
The Tribune:—"A series of exciting escapades and amateur detective work, eminently compelling and full of interest."
MARION BOWERS
THE WRESTLERS.
The Nottingham Guardian says:—"A skilfully presented study of the subtle moods of a woman's heart. The picture of Muriel Attledon's subjection to a husband who slights and neglects her while he flirts with another woman, and covers his disloyalty with a specious cloak of solicitude, is finely sketched."