It is, to be sure, an old enough story. But its merit is that it is told with a vigor and a dramatic insight that makes it read like a narrative of actual fact. If it has any fault, it lies in rather unnecessary multiplicity of physiological details.
It is to be hoped that Mr. Chesterton, who has recently confessed to a weakness for reading detective stories, may be able to get a copy of Charles Carey’s book, “The Van Suyden Sapphires,” just published by Dodd, Mead & Co., for in it he will find all the diversion that he needs, and possibly some information as to the art of plot construction—if indeed it is an art and not a science.
It is a little bit uncertain as to whether or not Mr. Carey intentionally emphasizes Miss Bramblestone’s rather abnormal intuition, or whether he is trading, for the purpose of his story, upon the popular superstition—maybe it is not a superstition—that this faculty is essentially feminine. But it is not a matter of the highest importance whether he has or not; it is not even worth while to be hypercritical in a discussion of the artistic quality of the story; it would be a waste of time and space to undertake to throw doubt upon the probability of any of the story’s episodes, for when one is forced to make the acknowledgment that Mr. Carey has written a book that will not surrender its hold upon the attention until the last word is read, what more need be said in its praise?
It is as good an example of the peculiar fascination exercised by so-called detective stories as we know of; and besides this it contains—as most of these stories do not—a lot of people who command both our interest and sympathy, from the heroine to the self-confessed criminal, Harry Glenn, who is, in spite of his wickedness, a very captivating young man, as Miss Bramblestone found out, and as her lover, Captain McCracken, was finally forced to admit.
“The Unwritten Law,” by Arthur Henry, A. S. Barnes & Co., is extremely interesting, and written in a curiously circumstantial style, so explicitly worked out as to details of scenery, location and so forth, that it constantly produces the effect of fact rather than fiction.
Various seamy sides of society are shown up in pretty plain colors, and the author does not hesitate to draw conclusions from them, too strongly convincing to be questioned by his readers. The old engraver, Karl Fischer, his wife and two daughters, are typical products of the time, especially the pretty and sensual Thekla, whose physical exuberance and innocent carelessness of social decencies are such a manifest result of her environment.
These four form the nucleus of the plot, and have to do with the destinies of other characters, all equally pronounced types. Adams, the young lawyer, is interesting in his defense of old Karl, on trial for counterfeiting; the Vandermere and Storrs families might be portraits drawn from our own acquaintance; more’s the pity.
But the story is, nevertheless, far from commonplace. It will not make us laugh, yet will keep us absorbed till the last page, and we lay it down feeling that we have seen certain phases of life with some intense lights thrown upon them.