The White Lie
by William Le Queux
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She ascended the thickly-carpeted stairs noiselessly, and from the safe in her room took the square morocco box. Then, assuring herself that no servant could be watching, she carried it down to the little salon and, switching on the light, placed the box upon a small Louis Quinze table in the centre of the room.

It was a prettily-furnished apartment, with genuine old Louis Quinze furniture. In a corner was a large palm, and upon a side-table a great vase of fresh flowers. The gilt furniture shone beneath the bright light, and the whole had an effect of artistic brilliancy and daintiness.

She crossed to the drawn curtains of daffodil plush and, placing her hand within, undid the latch of the long window which led out upon the balcony and pushed it open slightly. Then, recrossing the room, she stood near the door, waiting.

There was still time before he was due to enter there and give her the letter in return for the pearls.

Of what use was it to wait there? So she switched off the light in case Bracondale should return and wonder, and passed into the adjoining room. What if Bracondale came back before the exchange were effected?

She stood holding her breath, listening in eager anxiety.

Suddenly the telephone-bell rang in the study, and in order that Jenner might not hear it and descend to answer it, she hurried to the instrument herself.

It was a call from the British Embassy in Paris. One of the secretaries spoke to her, asking whether his Excellency the Ambassador might speak to his lordship upon an important matter.

"Lord Bracondale is not in. I am Lady Bracondale," she replied.

"When do you expect Lord Bracondale back?" the voice inquired.

"Soon after twelve. Will you ring up again? Tell Sir Charles that I will at once tell my husband when he returns," she said, and then rang off.

Meanwhile a dark figure, which had stealthily crept along the road, entered the gate and stole noiselessly over the grass to the verandah.

The man had been watching the house for an hour past, and, as though with sudden resolution, he made up his mind to enter.

At first he seemed fearful of discovery. Indeed, for a full half-hour had he lurked motionless beneath a tree, waiting, and, though there was complete silence in that still, oppressive night, yet he appeared to hesitate.

All the rooms on the ground floor were in darkness save for the study, the curtains of which were only half-closed. Therefore, as he approached the house, he saw Lady Bracondale alone, speaking into the telephone.

Suddenly, with an agile movement, he scaled the verandah, and a few seconds later, without making a sound, he stood before the window against the entrance porch—the window of the little salon which Jean had indicated where the pearls would be. His movements betrayed that he was an expert at moving without making a sound.

Bending, the dark figure, still moving stealthily, crept up to the long window upon which there suddenly flashed a small zone of white light from an electric pocket-lamp, revealing the fact that, though the heavy curtain was drawn, the window was ajar.

For a few seconds the man listened. Then, having reassured himself that there was no one in the room, he slowly pushed back the curtain and peered into the darkness.

Suddenly he heard a footstep and, dropping the curtain instantly, stood in the darkness, quite motionless.

Somebody entered the room, switched on the light, crossed to the centre of the apartment, stood there for a few seconds, and then, receding, switched off the light again and closed the door.

The intruder stood in the room behind the curtain without moving a muscle.

He could hear sounds of footsteps within the house.

He had closed the long glass door when he had entered, and now stood concealed behind the yellow plush curtain.

Suddenly he heard the piano being played—a song from "La Boheme." He stood listening, for he was always fond of music. As he halted there the sweet perfume of the flowers greeted his nostrils, and he murmured some low words beneath his breath.

His hand sought his jacket pocket, and when he withdrew it he had in his grasp a serviceable-looking revolver. He inhaled a long deep breath, for he was desperate.

At last he summoned courage, and again drew back the curtain very slowly. All was darkness within until he switched on his pocket-lamp and slowly examined the place.

The light fell upon the table whereon stood the jewel-case, and he walked straight to it and opened it.

The moment his eyes fell upon the magnificent string of pearls he stood for a second as though in hesitation.

Then swiftly he took them up, and with a glance at them thrust his prize into his jacket pocket.

It was the work of an instant.

He reclosed the lid. It snapped and startled him.

Next moment his light was switched off and he disappeared.

A second later, however, Jean turned the handle of the door, entered the room, and again switched on the light.

The place became flooded with electricity, and she stood a pale, erect figure, staring at the clock, which was just chiming the hour of midnight.



Hardly had the sound of the silvery bells died away when a second figure scaled the balcony, and, seeing the light over the top of the curtain, as arranged, he placed his hand upon the long glass door and slowly opened it.

He drew aside the curtain slightly to ascertain if Jean were there awaiting him, and, seeing her, he entered boldly.

Ralph was dressed just as he had been in the morning, only he wore yellow lisle-thread gloves, so as to conceal his finger-prints, which, alas! were too well known to the police.

Husband and wife faced each other, in ignorance that an intruder stood concealed behind that curtain within two or three feet of them.

The intruder had fixed his eyes upon Jean, and stood staring at her as though fascinated by her amazing beauty.

"At last, Ralph!" she gasped. "I—I thought perhaps you would not come—that you would think the risk too great."

"Bah! What risk?" he asked. "Even if I were discovered, Bracondale could easily be satisfied that we are husband and wife."

She shrank back at those words.

"The child saw you with me this morning and told her father."

"Awkward. What did you say?"

"I made an excuse. One which, I hope, satisfied him."

"Trust you, Jean, for a good excuse," he laughed brutally.

Then, with a glance at the jewel-case on the table, he added: "But if I were you I'd be very wary. I suppose I did wrong in meeting you openly as I did. I ought to have been more circumspect. But, my girl, we need not have necessity to meet again, need we?"

"I hope not—for my sake," was her reply, as she turned her pale face to his.

"If you play the game, I shall also do the same. So you needn't fear. Only I must have an address where to write to you."

"No," she protested. "You must not write. It will be far too dangerous. And, besides, you made me a promise that if I gave you those," and she glanced at the table, "you would give me back my letter, and go away, never to see me again."

He regarded her in silence for a few moments, a sinister smile playing about his mobile lips. But he made no reply.

"Ah, Ralph," she went on, "I—I can't somehow trust you. When you have spent this money you will come back again. I know you will. Ah! you do not know all that this means to me."

"Well, doesn't it mean a lot to me—eh?"

"But I am a woman."

"You have money, while I'm without a sou. You surely can't blame me for getting a bit to go on with!" he exclaimed. "Is anybody about?"

"No. Bracondale has not yet returned, and all the servants are in bed."

"By Jove! This is a pretty house of yours, Jean!" he remarked, gazing around. He had not removed his hat. "You ought to consider yourself deuced lucky. While I've been having all my ups and downs, you've been living the life of a lady. When I saw you in your car at Havre I couldn't believe it. But to see you again really did my eyesight good."

"And benefited your pocket," she added bitterly.

He grinned. His nonchalant air irritated her. He was just the same as he had been in those days of their poverty, even though he now wore the clothes of a gentleman.

"Well," he said at last, "I've been thinking things over this evening. You can't expect me, Jean, to accept a lump payment for my silence, can you? If you had a respectable sum which you could hand over so that my wants would, in future, be provided for, it would be different. I——"

"Your wants!" she interrupted in anger. "What are your wants? Money—money—money always! Ah, Ralph! I know you. You brought me to ruin once, and you will do so again. I know it!"

"Not unless you are a fool!" he replied roughly. "You want your letter back—which is only natural. For it you give me your pearls. It is not a gift. I take them. I find the window unlatched, and come in and help myself. To-morrow you will raise a hue and cry—but not before noon, as I shall then be nearing old Uncle Karl, in Amsterdam. Bracondale will be furious, the Surete will fuss and be busy, and you will be in picturesque tears over your loss. Bracondale will tell you not to worry, and promptly make you another present—perhaps a better one—and then all will be well."

"But you said you would leave Europe," she replied anxiously.

"So I shall."

"But——" and she hesitated.

"Ah! I see you don't trust me."

"I trusted you—once—Ralph. Do you recollect how brutally you treated me—eh?" she asked, in deep reproach.

"I recollect that, because of you, I quarrelled with Adolphe. He loved you, and now he's in prison, and serve him right, the idiot!"

The concealed intruder was watching them between the wall and the curtain, yet hardly daring to breathe for fear of discovery. He had the pearls in his pocket, and as the glass door was closed he was unable to reopen it and escape, lest he should reveal himself.

He heard Ansell's words, and understood the situation. If the lid of the jewel-case were raised the thief would be discovered, and the alarm given.

Those were moments of breathless peril.

"Adolphe protected me from your violence," she replied, simply. "He was my friend, but he did not love me, because I loved you—only you!"

"And you care for me no longer?"

"The fire of my love for you burned itself out on that tragic night," she replied.

"How very poetic," he sneered. "Is it your habit to talk to Bracondale like that?"

She bit her lip. Mention of Bracondale's name caused a flood of great bitterness to overwhelm her.

"I did not expect, when you came here, that you would insult me in addition to blackmailing me."

"Blackmail, you call it—eh?"

"What else is it?"

"A simple purchase, my girl. I have a letter, and you wish to buy it. The transaction is surely a fair one! Besides, if you do not wish to buy my silence, it is quite immaterial to me. I shall soon find another purchaser in Bracondale."

"He won't believe you."

"He has only to have a search made of the marriage register. Perhaps you don't remember the date. I do."

"And I, worse luck! Ah, how grossly you deceived me!" she exclaimed bitterly. "I thought I married a gentleman, only, alas! to discover that I had a notorious thief as husband."

"You expected too much. You thought you had become a lady, and were disappointed when you found that you were not. Yes—I suppose when I told you the truth, it must have been a bit of a jag for you. That fool, Adolphe, wanted me to keep the truth from you. But what was the use?"

"Yes," she sighed. "You were at least frank—perhaps the only occasion upon which you ever told me the truth."

"The truth is generally unwelcome," he laughed. "Lies are always pleasant."

"To the liar."

"I'm afraid you'll have, in future, to lie to Bracondale."

"I shall use my own discretion," she responded. "Perhaps I shall confess."

"And if so, what then?"

"I shall tell him that you entered here and stole my pearls."

"How very generous that would be," he laughed angrily. "And I wonder what Bracondale would think of you if you endeavoured to send your own husband to prison—eh?"

"Ah, you will drive me to desperation!" she cried, her dark eyes glaring at him angrily. "Give me the letter and go—go! Bracondale may be back now—at any moment!"

"I assure you I fear neither Bracondale nor you—nor even the result of your confession. And I feel quite loath to-night to leave you; you look so extremely charming in that pretty gown."

"Don't be foolish. At least have some consideration for me—for my future."

"It is my own future I am thinking of," he declared harshly. "Your future is assured, so long as you play the game with Bracondale. If you act indiscreetly, and give way to silly moods, then you will only have yourself to blame for your ruin. Besides," he added, with his lip curling slightly, "you have the child to consider. What's her name?"

"Her name is of no matter to you," was Jean's hot response. "She is mine, not yours."

"I'm rather glad of that," he responded. "But I don't think this is really a fit opportunity to waste time in mutual recrimination."

"No. Go, I tell you. If you remain longer, it will be dangerous—dangerous for us both."

He looked at the clock, and then his gaze wandered to the closed jewel-case upon the Louis Quinze table. The small room, closed as it was, was filled with the perfume of the great bunch of flowers in the long Chinese vase—a perfume that seemed almost overpowering.

"But I tell you I see no danger," was his careless reply, for it seemed his object to taunt her. He had already hinted at a continued tax upon her resources if she desired him to keep his lips sealed, and she, on her part, realising his true character, clearly foresaw that all her efforts could have but one result. To satisfy his demands would be impossible.

A shadow had fallen upon her eventful life, one that would never again be lifted.

"Will you have no pity for me?" she implored. "Have you come here with the express intent of goading me to madness?"

"No—simply in order to have a straight talk with you—a chat between husband and wife."

"Well, we have had it. Take the pearls and go. Get clear away before you are discovered. Bracondale may now be back at any moment," she added in fear of his sudden return.

"I'm in no great hurry, I assure you," was his reply, as he seated himself upon the arm of a chair.

"Give me the letter, Ralph. Do—if you please."

He laughed in her face, his hands stuck in his jacket pockets, as was his habit.

She looked around her with an expression of terror and despair. She listened, for she fancied she heard a footstep.

They both listened, but no other sound could be distinguished.

"A false alarm," remarked the man. Then, suddenly rising from where he was seated, he placed his hand in his breast pocket, and, drawing out his wallet, took therefrom the well-worn letter.

"Well," he said reluctantly, "here you are. I suppose you'd better have it. And now you can't say but what I'm not generous—can you?"

Jean almost snatched the precious note from his fingers, glanced at it to reassure herself that she was not being tricked, and then, striking a match which she took from a side-table, she applied it to one corner of the farewell letter, and held it till only a black piece of crackling tinder remained.

"Now you are satisfied, I hope," he remarked in a harsh voice.

"Yes. Take the pearls. Take the box, and go," she urged quickly, placing her hand upon his arm to emphasise her words, and pushing him across to the table where stood the big morocco case.

"All right," he laughed. "Let's look at these wonderful pearls of yours. I wonder how much they are worth?"

He halted at the table, fingering the spring-fastening of the case, and at last raised the lid.

It was empty!

"You vixen! You infernal woman!" he cried, turning upon her, white with anger, and with clenched fists. "You've played a slick trick on me—you've had me—and now—by gad! I—I'll have my revenge!"



Ralph Ansell made a sudden dash at his wife, gripping her by the throat with his gloved hands.

She staggered to the table, and he bent her backwards across it. His evil face was distorted by a look of murderous hatred, his big eyes started from their sockets in his wild frenzy of anger.

"Where are those pearls?" he demanded. "Speak! Give them to me at once, or, by Heaven, I'll strangle you!"

"I—I don't know," she managed to gasp. "They were in there. I—I—I thought they were there."

"You liar! You got the letter and burned it, well knowing that the jewels were not in the box! Where are they?" he demanded, tightening his grip upon her throat and shaking her roughly. "Speak, woman—speak! Tell me where they are!"

Jean struggled frantically to free herself from his murderous grip. He was throttling her.

"I—I don't know—where—they are!" she protested, with great difficulty.

"You do! You've kept them!" he hissed between his teeth, for he was in a fury of fierce anger at having been so deceived. "It's no use lying. I mean to have them, or go straight to this man Bracondale."

"I'm telling the truth!" protested the unhappy woman. "They were there half an hour ago. I put them there."

"Bah! Don't tell me that! They could not have gone without hands. No, you've worked a real slick trick! And I was fool enough to trust you! Come, hand them over at once—if you don't want Bracondale to know," and he again forced her farther back over the table. "He'll be here in a minute. What a nice scene for him—eh? Come, where are those pearls?"

"I've told you I don't know. It's the truth, Ralph, I swear it!" she cried, in wild despair. "Somebody must have stolen them!"

"You liar!" he cried, his face white with evil passion. "Do you dare to tell me that? Do you think I'm a fool to believe such a story? Stolen! Of course they're not stolen. You've hidden them. Yes," he added, "you've been devilish clever to get that letter out of me, and burn it before my eyes—haven't you—eh? But you shall pay for it!" he cried, between his teeth, as his strong hands compressed her throat until she went scarlet and her wild, glaring eyes started from her head.

She tried to cry out—tried to shriek and raise an alarm, for she knew her life was in danger. But she could utter no sound beyond a low gurgle.

"You refuse to give me the pearls—eh?" he said, his dark brows knit, and murder in his piercing eyes. "You think to trick me—your husband! By gad! You shall pay for this! Tell me where they are. This is your last moment. You shall die—die—curse you!" And his grip tightened upon her thin, white throat—the grip of a murderer.

Jean, unable to move, unable to cry out, felt herself fainting, when next second she was startled by a sharp pistol shot.

"Ah!" gasped her assailant, releasing his hold instantly and clapping his right hand to his back.

The shot had been fired from behind.

"Ah!" cried the wounded man in wild despair. "I—why, I——"

Then he reeled completely round and fell backward upon the carpet—inert—dead!

At the same instant Jean, staggered by the suddenness of it all, was confronted by a ragged, unkempt, hatless man in a striped jacket some sizes too big for him. Around his neck was a dirty scarf in lieu of a collar, and his dark hair was curly and ruffled.

She saw the man emerge from the curtain, and started back in increased alarm.

"Madame!" cried the newcomer, "it is me! Don't you know me?"

She stood rooted to the spot.

"Adolphe!" she gasped, staring at him.

"Yes, madame. I came here, not knowing that this was your chateau," he explained, in a low whisper. "I found the window open just before that man arrived. I came in and took your pearls. Here they are!"

And he drew them from the pocket of his shabby jacket and handed them back to her.

"Where—where did you come from? You have saved my life," she faltered in blank amazement.

"I came out of prison nine months ago," was his reply. "They brought me to Paris, but I could find no work, so I tramped to Havre, hoping to get a job at the docks, or to work my passage to New York. But all to no avail, so I—I had, alas! to return to my old profession. And the first house I enter I find, to my dismay, is yours!"

"You heard us talking?" she asked quickly.

"I heard everything—and I understood everything," was the quick reply. "That man," he went on, "robbed me and gave me deliberately into the hands of the police. I swore to be avenged, and I have killed him—as he deserves. He was an assassin, and I am his executioner!"

"But the servants will be alarmed by the shot!" she gasped suddenly. "There is no time to lose. You must want money. I shall send you some to the Poste Restante in Havre—to-morrow. Now go—or you may be discovered."

"But how will you explain?" he asked hurriedly. "Ah, madame, through those long, dreary years at Devil's Island I have thought of you, and wondered—and wondered what had become of you. I am so glad to know that you are rich and happy, as you assuredly deserve."

She sighed, for a flood of memories came over her.

"Yes, Adolphe, I am greatly indebted to you. Twice you have saved me from that man's violence. Ah, I shall not forget."

"But, madame, think of yourself! If he comes—if the servants come—how can you explain his body in your room? Let me think!"

Already Jean fancied she heard sounds of someone moving in the house, and of subdued and frightened voices.

Yes, the servants had been alarmed, and were searching from room to room! Not an instant was to be lost.

"I have an idea!" exclaimed "The Eel." "Here, take this, madame," and he held out his revolver to her with both hands.

But she shrank back.

"Take it—take it, I beg of you," he implored.

She obeyed, moving like one in a dream.

Swiftly he took up the pearls and, bending, placed them in the dead man's pocket. Then, having done this, he said:

"Your explanation is quite a simple one. You came in here unexpectedly, and found the man—a perfect stranger to you, and a burglar, evidently, from the fact that he wore gloves—taking your pearls from their case. You demanded them back, but he turned upon you with a revolver. There was a struggle for the weapon. You twisted his hand back, and in the fight it went off. And he fell dead. Keep cool. That is your story."

"But I——"

"That is the only story, madame," he said firmly. "It is a lie, I admit—but a white lie—the only explanation you can give, if you would still preserve your secret."

Footsteps sounded out in the hall, and therefore there was not a second to waste.

The thief grasped her thin, white hand and, bending devotedly, kissed it.

"Adieu, madame. May Heaven assist and preserve you in future!" he whispered, and next moment he had disappeared behind the curtain and dropped over the verandah.



For a few seconds Jean stood motionless, staring at the lifeless body of her husband, who lay with face upturned, the evil eyes closed, the hands listless by his sides.

His head was towards the window, close to a small gilt settee, his feet towards the door.

She stood with her eyes full of horror, fixed upon the white, dead face.

In that dread moment a veritable lifetime of despair swept through her fevered brain.

The servants, with hushed, terrified voices, were searching the rooms on the ground floor. She could hear Miss Oliver speaking.

Their footsteps sounded on the big, tiled hall outside the door. What if Adolphe were captured leaving the premises?

She held her breath. All her self-possession was required now, for she also recognised Bracondale's voice. He had returned!

Was silence judicious in those circumstances? She decided it was not. Therefore she gave vent to a loud scream—a scream which told them where she was.

In a moment they all burst into the room—Bracondale in his evening clothes, Miss Oliver in her dressing-gown, and the two footmen, who had hastily dressed, one of them without his coat.

The servants, seeing a man lying upon the carpet, halted upon the threshold, but Bracondale dashed forward to his wife, who stood with her hands to her brow in frantic terror. She was, he saw, on the verge of fainting. Therefore he took her in his arms and hastily inquired what had occurred.

"He's dead—I believe!" gasped one of the footmen, in French.

"Jean! What has happened?" Bracondale demanded, in amazement. "Tell me, dearest."

But she was too agitated to speak. She only clung to him and, burying her face upon his shoulder, sobbed hysterically, while Miss Oliver rushed away for a smelling-bottle.

"Who is this man?" Bracondale asked in a hard voice. "What is the matter? The servants heard a shot just after I came in. They came to me in the study—but I had heard nothing."

She raised her wild eyes to his, and then glanced round the pretty apartment. Her gaze fell upon Ralph Ansell's dead face, and she shuddered and shrank back. Her mouth was twitching. She was hysterical, and could say nothing.

"Tell me, Jean. What does all this mean?" asked Bracondale, very quietly, considering the circumstances.

"Ah! no dear!" she cried. "Don't ask me—don't ask me! I—I killed him!"

"Killed him!" echoed her husband blankly. "What do you mean? You are not yourself, dearest."

She looked at the servants meaningly.

"Will you leave us alone?" Bracondale said, turning to them just as Miss Oliver returned with the bottle of smelling-salts.

They all left the room, including the governess, husband and wife being left with the dead man.

"Tell me, darling, what has occurred?" asked Bracondale in a soft, sympathetic voice, endeavouring to calm her.

For a long time she refused to answer. She could not bring herself to speak a lie to him, not even a white lie! The night had been so full of horror and tragedy that she was beside herself. She wondered whether it were not, after all, a horrible dream.

Yet no! It was true. Ralph Ansell was dead. He had carried his secret with him to the grave, and she was free—free! She was really Lady Bracondale, the mother of Bracondale's child!

She had been at the point of confessing. But no. Bracondale must know nothing.

"You killed this man, Jean?" her husband was saying in a low, intense voice. "Why?"

"I—I—he attacked me, and I——"

She did not conclude her sentence.

"Why, your neck is all black and blue!" Bracondale said, noticing it for the first time.

"He tried to strangle me, then he intended to shoot me," she said hysterically. "We struggled—and—and it—it went off!"

"But who is he?"

"How can I tell?" she asked frantically. "I came in here unexpectedly, and saw him with my pearls in his hand. I—I demanded them back, but he refused. I threatened to shout and alarm the servants, but he sprang upon me and tried to strangle me!"

Bracondale, for the first time, noticed that the morocco jewel-case stood open on the table.

"He must have got them from your bedroom!" he exclaimed; and then, his quick eye catching sight of the tinder of the burnt letter in the fender of the stove, he bent, picked it up, and remarked:

"He seems to have also burnt something. I wonder what it was?"

His lordship crossed the carpet and stood looking upon the dead face.

"Who is he? Do you know, Jean?" he inquired in a serious, intense tone.

"I—I have no idea."

"The police will establish his identity, no doubt. I will telephone for them," he said. "But where are the pearls now?"

"In his pocket, I expect," she said.

Bracondale bent and hastily felt the outside of one of the dead man's pockets. But they were not there.

He felt the other, and, discovering them, drew out the beautiful string, and replaced it in its box.

"An expert thief, I should say, from his dress," remarked Bracondale. "He wears gloves, too—just as all modern burglars do."

"He nearly strangled me," Jean declared weakly.

"It was fortunate that the revolver went off during the struggle, or he might have killed you, dearest. Ah! you are a brave girl. The papers will, no doubt, be full of this!"

"Ah! no!" she implored. "Do not let us have any publicity. I—I hate to think that I have killed a man—even though he be an armed burglar."

"But the law permits you to take life in self-defence, therefore do not trouble yourself over it. He would, no doubt, have killed you with little compunction, rather than forego carrying away his prize."


"No," urged her husband kindly. "Do not let us discuss it further. Come with me to your room. I will telephone to the police in Havre, and leave the rest to them. Come, dearest, you have had a terrible experience, and you must rest quietly now—and recover."

He linked his arms in hers tenderly, and conducted her slowly from the presence of that white, dead countenance she knew, alas! too well.

After taking her to her room and leaving her in the hands of Bates, her maid, he descended, and from the study telephoned to the Chef de la Surete at Havre.

Then, receiving a reply that three agents of police would at once be dispatched on cycles, he went upstairs to where she was seated in a big arm-chair, pale and trembling, still suffering from the shock.

It was only when they were again alone, and he took her in his strong arms, kissed her fondly upon the lips, and softly reassured her, that she could summon courage to speak.

"You do love me, Jack?" she asked with intense, eager eyes. "You do really love me? Tell me."

"Why, of course I do, dearest," he declared. "Why do you ask? Have you not seen that I love you?"

"I—I—yes, I know. But I thought perhaps you——"

She hesitated. She was wondering if he suspected anything. But no. She was free! Adolphe, ever sympathetic and ever faithful to her interests, had saved her. Yet, poor fellow, he was only a thief!

She swallowed the big lump that arose in her throat, and then, throwing her long, white arms wildly about her husband's neck, she kissed him with a fierce, intense passion, bursting into tears—tears of joy.

True, she had told a white lie, but in the circumstances, could you, my reader, blame her?



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AYESHA. 6s., 2s. net, and 6d.

THE COURT JOURNAL.—"A stupendous effort of imagination, and provides a narrative as enthralling and as realistic as anything Mr. Haggard has written."



THE DAILY MAIL.—"A triumph of cheery, resolute narration. The story goes along like a wave, and the reader with it."

STRONG MAC. 6s., and 6d.

THE MORNING POST.—"So vividly is the story told that it often reads like a narrative of things that have actually happened."

LITTLE ESSON. 6s., and 6d.

THE SCARBOROUGH POST.—"One of the most popular of Mr. Crockett's books since 'Lilac Sunbonnet.'"


PRO PATRIA. 6s., 1s. net, 7d. net, and 6d.

THE LIVERPOOL MERCURY.—"A fine and distinguished piece of imaginative writing; one that should shed a new lustre upon the clever author of 'Kronstadt.'"


THE DAILY MAIL.—"Assuredly he has never written anything more fresh, more simple, more alluring, or more artistically perfect."

THE GOLD WOLF. 6s., 1s. net, 7d. net, and 6d.

ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS.—"From the beginning Mr. Pemberton weaves his romance with such skill that the tangled skein remains for long unravelled."

THE LODESTAR. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE STANDARD.—"It impresses us as an exceedingly poignant and effective story, true to real life. Written with cleverness and charm."

WHITE WALLS. 6s., and 2s. net.

THE LADY.—"A melodrama cleverly imagined, written in the author's happiest and most spirited style, and well illustrated by Maurice Greiffenhagen."


Shows the author in his most romantic and emotional manner.


MYSTERIES. 6s., and 2s. net.

THE EVENING NEWS.—"Each page is steeped in marvels of crime. The tales are most ingeniously planned, and no amount of pains has been spared to make them thrilling."


WESTERN MAIL.—"A remarkable story, crowded with the most exciting situations, and bristling with crimes which only the brain of a most versatile author could conceive."


Mr. Le Queux, who has been styled "The Master of Mysteries," has here woven one of his most mystifying tales. It is like a Chinese puzzle in its ingenuity, and holds the reader breathless from the first line to the last.



MADAME.—"Rather should this delightful volume have been titled 'The Book of Enchantment.'"

THE UNKNOWN LADY. 6s., 2s. net, 1s. net.

OBSERVER.—"This is the best work its author has ever attempted or achieved. There is charm in every line of it."

BIANCA'S DAUGHTER. 6s., 1s. net, and 6d.

THE ATHENAEUM.—"Mr. Forman is one of the most distinctively romantic writers of to-day. He has a fund of fine sympathy."

JOURNEYS END. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE COURT JOURNAL.—"Surprisingly fresh, abounding in touches of observation and sentiment."

MONSIGNY: THE SOUL OF GOLD. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—"The novel is admirable, the idea is very cleverly worked out, and the book is worthy of much praise."

THE GARDEN OF LIES. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE DAILY NEWS.—"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 is a real romance, full of vigour and a clean, healthy life."

TOMMY CARTERET. 6s., 1s. net, 7d. net, and 6d.

THE DAILY CHRONICLE.—"This is a fine book, thoroughly fine from start to finish."

BUCHANAN'S WIFE. 6s., 1s. net, 7d. net, and 6d.

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—"'Buchanan's Wife' may be regarded as another success for an already successful author."


PEOPLE'S SATURDAY JOURNAL.—"Full of exciting incidents handled in a bright, crisp style."


WORLD.—"'The Quest' is every whit as good as its author's best known story, 'The Garden of Lies.'"


THE ATHENAEUM.—"A gay, light-hearted, and pleasantly discursive book."


THE STANDARD.—"Mr. Forman is an accomplished writer of romance as he has shown us on many previous occasions, and once again he holds us with his spell."


One of the best stories Justus Miles Forman has written since "The Garden of Lies."


Palpitates with life and energy, and shows Mr. Forman in quite a new vein. Never has he written anything more exciting.


FALSE EVIDENCE. 6s., and 2s. net.

WESTERN MAIL.—"One takes up a story by Mr. E. Phillips Oppenheim with the certainty of enjoyment, and the reader is never disappointed."


FREEMAN'S JOURNAL.—"Mr. Oppenheim's undoubted genius for clever construction and guarding his secret was never better shown than in this story."

THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 6s., 2s. net, 1s. net, and 6d.

THE COVENTRY STANDARD.—"A thrilling story by that clever writer of fiction, Mr. E. Phillips Oppenheim, which will add another work of interest to the already long list of his delightful creations."

BERENICE. 6s., and 6d.

THE YORKSHIRE OBSERVER.—"More sincere work than is to be found in this novel Mr. Oppenheim has never written. The subject shows the author in a new and unexpected light."

MR. MARX'S SECRET. 6s., and 6d.

THE SCOTSMAN.—"'Mr. Marx's Secret' has a wonderful power of fascination: it is strongly written, and is certain to appeal to that popular author's admirers."

JEANNE OF THE MARSHES. 6s., 2s. net, and 6d.

BRISTOL MERCURY.—"'Jeanne of the Marshes' is charming and delightful in the extreme; without a doubt it will be voted one of the best novels of the season."

THE LONG ARM. 6s., and 6d.

THE WORLD.—"'The Long Arm' is a clever story, which no one will lay down till every line is read."

THE GOVERNORS. 6s., and 6d.

THE GLOBE.—"'The Governors' is by Mr. E. P. Oppenheim—need more be said to assure the reader that it is as full of ruses, politics, and sensations as heart could desire."

THE MISSIONER. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE HUDDERSFIELD EXAMINER.—"We have nothing but the very highest praise for this book. Deeply engrossing as a novel, pure in style, and practically faultless as a literary work."

CONSPIRATORS. 6s., and 6d.

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—"The author must be congratulated on having achieved a story which is full of liveliness."

THE SECRET. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE STANDARD.—"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 MAKER OF HISTORY. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE STANDARD.—"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. 6s., 2s. net, 1s. net, and 6d.

THE DUNDEE ADVERTISER.—"It is a beautiful story that is here set within a story."

THE BETRAYAL. 6s., 2s. net, and 6d.

THE DUNDEE ADVERTISER.—"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. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE DAILY NEWS.—"Mr. Oppenheim keeps his readers on the alert from cover to cover, and the story is a fascinating medley of romance and mystery."

THE YELLOW CRAYON. 6s., and 6d.

THE DAILY EXPRESS.—"Mr. Oppenheim has a vivid imagination and much sympathy, fine powers of narrative, and can suggest a life history in a sentence."

A PRINCE OF SINNERS. 6s., and 6d.

VANITY FAIR.—"A vivid and powerful story. Mr. Oppenheim knows the world, and the unusual nature of the setting in which his leading characters live gives this book distinction among the novels of the season."

THE TRAITORS. 6s., and 6d.

THE ATHENAEUM.—"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 the characters are exceedingly vivacious."

A LOST LEADER. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE DAILY GRAPHIC.—"Mr. Oppenheim almost treats us to a romance which is full of originality and interest from first to last."

MR. WINGRAVE, MILLIONAIRE. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE BRITISH WEEKLY.—"Like good wine Mr. Oppenheim's novels need no push. They attract by their own charm, and are unrivalled in popularity."

AS A MAN LIVES. 6s., and 6d.

THE SKETCH.—"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."


THE SCOTSMAN.—"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.'"


THE ABERDEEN DAILY JOURNAL.—"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 FREEMAN'S JOURNAL.—"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.—"It is full of dramatic incidents, thoroughly exciting and realistic. There is not one dull page from beginning to end."

A MONK OF CRUTA. 6s., and 6d.

THE BOOKMAN.—"Intensely dramatic. The book is an achievement at which the author may well be gratified."

MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN. 6s., and 6d.

THE LITERARY WORLD.—"As a story of interest, with a deep-laid and exciting plot, this of the 'Mysterious Mr. Sabin' can hardly be surpassed."

A MILLIONAIRE OF YESTERDAY. 6s., 2s. net, and 6d.

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—"We cannot but welcome with enthusiasm a really well-told story like 'A Millionaire of Yesterday.'"

THE SURVIVOR. 6s., and 6d.

THE NOTTINGHAM GUARDIAN.—"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."


THE YORKSHIRE POST.—"A weird and fascinating story, which for real beauty and originality, ranks far above the ordinary novel."


MODERN SOCIETY.—"The fame of Mr. Oppenheim is world wide, and in 'For the Queen' the author lives up to the highest traditions of his reputation as a writer of fiction."


Mr. Oppenheim ranges with assured mastery from grave to gay, while diplomatic scandals and political intrigues are woven with that delicate skill which we expect from him as a sort of right.

EXPIATION. 3s., 6d., and 2s. net.

Mr. Oppenheim is one of the cleverest weavers of plots who write the English language, and he has many examples of his skill. "Expiation" is quite one of his best.


THE OPEN DOOR. 6s., and 6d.

An absorbing tale of unusual interest and mystery. Mr. White's high reputation for sensationalism is well known, and "The Open Door" will certainly uphold it.

THE FIVE KNOTS. 6s., and 6d.

WESTERN DAILY PRESS.—"Mr. White has written several books, all of which have been enjoyed by a large number of readers, who will probably agree that it is the best."


MODERN SOCIETY.—"As the plot is unfolded the reader becomes more and more fascinated, the interest being powerfully held until the close."


THE SCOTSMAN.—"Mr. Fred M. White has written a story full of dramatic surprises. Mr. White is a master of sensations, and his introduction of the incident of the Italian Vendetta gives point to a good tale."

THE GOLDEN ROSE. 6s., and 6d.

IRISH INDEPENDENT.—"This latest book possesses all those characteristics which go to make Mr. White's novels so readable and so popular."

HARD PRESSED. 6s., and 6d.

PALL MALL GAZETTE.—"Mr. White gives us here an excellent story of the Turf. The tale is full of dramatic and exciting incidents, and will afford the reader keen enjoyment."


GLASGOW HERALD.—"Mr. White conjures marvellously, fetching sensation and art into the same hat—and out of it triumphantly. Hot scent, fast pace, good company—a rattling yarn!"

NUMBER 13. 6s.

"Number 13" is a mystery story such as Mr. White's many admirers will revel in.


THE FOUNDLING. 6s., and 2s. net.

DAILY GRAPHIC.—"The character of Strand is an excellent study, cleverly and strongly drawn, and the book is a very interesting and readable work."


Mr. Paul Trent's stories, "The Vow" and "The Foundling," were powerful tales with a motive. "The Second Chance," as its title indicates, is of the same school.


Readers always expect a powerful story from the author of "The Vow," and "Max Logan" is the best he has written.


SYLVIA'S CHAUFFEUR. 6s., 2s. net, 1s. net, 7d. net, and 6d.

MORNING LEADER.—"'Sylvia's Chauffeur' is as pleasant a piece of light reading as any one could desire."

RAINBOW ISLAND. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE LITERARY WORLD.—"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 PILLAR OF LIGHT. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE EVENING STANDARD.—"So admirable, so living, so breathlessly exciting a book. The magnificent realism of the lighthouse and its perils are worthy of praise from the most jaded reader."

A SON OF THE IMMORTALS. 6s., and 6d.

THE MORNING POST.—"Mr. Tracy's new book 'A Son of the Immortals' is of a highly sensational character, and adventures and stirring situations follow closely upon one another's heels all through it."

MIRABEL'S ISLAND. 6s., 2s. net.

A delightfully exciting and fascinating romance of love and adventure, comparable to its author's famous success, "Rainbow Island."


FINANCIAL TIMES.—"Mr. Tracy's latest novel provides an absorbing narrative which is not likely to be cast aside prematurely."


THE SCOTSMAN.—"Adventures and surprises fairly trip over each other in hasty succession to Mr. Louis Tracy's latest romance."


When Bob Armathwaite, in search of a peaceful time, took the house on the edge of the moor he little thought he would be so quickly inveigled in one of the most romantic of episodes, a host of adventures, and incidentally find a wife. How it all happened is told in this engrossing tale.



Every page has its incident or adventure, and the most exacting reader will not find a dull moment until the last page is turned.

MY LORD THE FELON. 6s., and 6d.

THE BOOKSELLER.—"Every page of this book has its incident or adventure, while the reader's interest is kept up to the last chapter."


THE DAILY EXPRESS.—"Those who love a really good mystery story may cordially be recommended to read Mr. Headon Hill's new book 'The Hour Glass Mystery.'"


"The Crimson Honeymoon" is a really fascinating sensation story, well written and cleverly put together.


THE TRUSTEE. 6s., and 2s. net.

PUNCH.—"Mr. Bindloss is an author who can deftly use sensationalism to his purpose without forcing it for mere effect, and who can also depict the character of a strong man as honest as determined in love with a sweet woman. He tells a story with rare skill."


ACADEMY.—"His novels are terse, powerful, yet graceful, showing intimate knowledge and acute observation, never overweighted with description, yet containing many delightful pictures."

THE PROTECTOR. 6s., 2s. net, and 1s. net.

MORNING POST.—"Mr. Bindloss is always a sure find for a good story, and in this one he has, if possible, excelled himself."


MORNING LEADER.—"This is the author's best novel, and is one which no lover of healthy excitement ought to miss."

HAWTREY'S DEPUTY. 6s., 2s. net, and 6d.

THE WESTERN DAILY MERCURY.—"The whole story is told with the most spontaneous verve, and is tinged with a delightful element of romance."

THE IMPOSTOR. 6s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE QUEEN.—"Mr. Bindloss writes books which are always good to read. His writing is uniformly good, and his books are always sane, intensely interesting, and dealing with subjects that cannot fail to concern a wide public."


THE TIMES.—"Mr. Bindloss's books are unchangeably true to type; and in the distracting medley of modern fiction they calm and regulate the mind."


THE SPORTSMAN.—"The simplicity and force of the language, and the abiding air of reality about the several adventures, make it hard to put down before it had been gone through to the last page."


A story of brisk, unflagging interest and adventure.



SHEFFIELD DAILY TELEGRAPH.—"Those who enjoy a good detective story will revel in Mr. J. S. Fletcher's 'The Secret Cargo.' The plot is clever and novel and it is capably worked out."


THE RACE OF LIFE. 5s., and 6d.

THE ENGLISH REVIEW.—"Ahead even of Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne and Conan Doyle, Mr. Boothby may be said to have topped popularity's pole."


THE SPEAKER.—"Is quite the equal in art, observation, and dramatic intensity to any of Mr. Guy Boothby's numerous other romances."

A BID FOR FREEDOM. 5s., and 6d.

THE SHEFFIELD TELEGRAPH.—"A fully written romance, which bristles with thrilling passages, exciting adventures, and hairbreadth escapes."


PUNCH.—"Just the very book that a hard-working man should read for genuine relaxation."

CONNIE BURT. 5s., and 6d.

THE BIRMINGHAM GAZETTE.—"One of the best stories we have seen of Mr. Boothby's."


PUBLIC OPINION.—"Brighter, crisper, and more entertaining than any of its predecessors from the same pen."

MY STRANGEST CASE. 5s., and 6d.

THE YORKSHIRE POST.—"No work of Mr. Boothby's seems to us to have approached in skill his new story."

FAREWELL, NIKOLA. 5s., and 6d.

THE DUNDEE ADVERTISER.—"Guy Boothby's famous creation of Dr. Nikola has become familiar to every reader of fiction."

MY INDIAN QUEEN. 5s., and 6d.

THE SUNDAY SPECIAL.—"A vivid story of adventure and daring, bearing all the characteristics of careful workmanship."

LONG LIVE THE KING. 5s., 2s. net, and 6d.

THE ABERDEEN FREE PRESS.—"It is marvellous that Mr. Boothby's novels should be all so uniformly good."


THE SCOTSMAN.—"Of absorbing interest. The exploits are described in an enthralling vein."

A MAKER OF NATIONS. 5s., and 6d.

THE SPECTATOR.—"'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. 5s., and 6d.

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—"Mr. Guy Boothby's name on the title-page of a novel carries with it the assurance of a good story to follow."

LOVE MADE MANIFEST. 5s., and 6d.

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—"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. 5s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE SCOTSMAN.—"This powerful novel is weird and soul-thrilling. There never was in this world so strange and wonderful a love story."

ACROSS THE WORLD FOR A WIFE. 5s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE BRITISH WEEKLY.—"This stirring tale ranks next to 'Dr. Nikola' in the list of Mr. Boothby's novels."

THE LUST OF HATE. 5s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE DAILY GRAPHIC.—"Whoever wants dramatic interest let him read 'The Lust of Hate.'"

THE FASCINATION OF THE KING. 5s., 2s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE BRISTOL MERCURY.—"Unquestionably the best work we have yet seen from the pen of Mr. Guy Boothby."

DR. NIKOLA. 5s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE SCOTSMAN.—"One hairbreadth escape succeeds another with rapidity that scarce leaves the reader breathing space."

THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL. 5s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE YORKSHIRE POST.—"A more exciting romance no man could reasonably ask for."

A BID FOR FORTUNE. 5s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE MANCHESTER COURIER.—"It is impossible to give any idea of the verve with which the story is told. The most original novel of the year."

IN STRANGE COMPANY. 5s., 1s., 6d., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE WORLD.—"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. 5s., 7d. net, and 6d.

THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN.—"There is a vigour and a power of illusion about it that raises it quite above the level of the ordinary novel of adventure."


THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN.—"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. 5s., and 6d.

MR. W. L. ALDEN IN THE NEW YORK TIMES.—"Mr. Boothby can crowd more adventure into a square foot of canvas than any other novelist."


Illustrated by Sidney Cowell.

THE MAN OF THE CRAG. 5s., and 6d.



NORTH DEVON JOURNAL.—"A novel of absorbing interest. The plot is developed very cleverly, and there is a delightful love theme."


THE DAILY TELEGRAPH.—"A well-sustained and thrilling narrative."


THE SCOTSMAN.—"A romance brimful of incident and arousing in the reader a healthy interest that carries him along with never a pause."


THE SCOTSMAN.—"The action never flags, the romantic element is always paramount, so that the production is bound to appeal successfully to all lovers of spirited fiction."


SHEFFIELD DAILY TELEGRAPH.—"Is a sensational story of very considerable merit, with a clever plot and a series of exciting incidents. It is a capital piece of work."


This new novel of Mr. Marchmont's is more attractive than any that have preceded it. From cover to cover it compels attention.



READING STANDARD.—"The novel reader who loves a really good novel full of desperate adventure will never be disappointed when Mr. Mitford's books are in question. This is a strong and clever piece of work, the plot is ingenious and the characterization uncommonly well done."

SEAFORD'S SNAKE. 6s., and 6d.

MADAME.—"If you like well-written stories of adventure you should get Mr. Mitford's latest novel. The characters are well portrayed, the story written in a brisk, virile style that proves very attractive."

AVERNO. 6s., and 6d.

DAILY GRAPHIC.—"Mr. Bertram Mitford can always be depended upon to spin a rattling story, and in 'Averno' he has made no exception to his excellent rule."


THE SCOTSMAN.—"Mr. Mitford can be relied on to write a stirring novel of adventure, and to this class his latest work belongs. The book is vigorously and effectively written."


THE PRINCE OF THIS WORLD. 3s., 6d., and 6d.

THE FINANCIAL TIMES.—"A strong knowledge of human nature, for which Mr. Hocking is famous, is well portrayed in the pages of this novel, and this, in conjunction with the interesting nature of the plot, renders it particularly successful. The book will be appreciated by novel readers."

ROGER TREWINION. 3s., 6d., 2s. net, and 6d.

T. P.'S WEEKLY.—"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."


THE GLASGOW HERALD.—"Mr. Hocking's 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."

ESAU. 3s. 6d.

THE OUTLOOK.—"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 NEWCASTLE CHRONICLE.—"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."


PUBLIC OPINION.—"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."


THE WEEKLY SUN.—"An engaging and fascinating romance. The reader puts the story down with a sigh, and wished there were more of these breezy Cornish uplands, for Mr. Joseph Hocking's easy style of narrative does not soon tire."


THE ROCK.—"Real strength is shown in the sketches, of which that of Brother Bowman is most prominent. In its way it is delightful."

THE WEAPONS OF MYSTERY. 3s. 6d., and 6d.

"Weapons of Mystery" is a singularly powerful story of occult influences and of their exertion for evil purposes.


THE SPECTATOR.—"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 STAR.—"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 PURPLE ROBE. 3s., 6d., and 2s. net.

THE QUEEN.—"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."

THE SCARLET WOMAN. 3s., 6d., and 2s. net.

THE METHODIST RECORDER.—"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."

ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 3s., 6d., and 1s. net.

THE CHRISTIAN WORLD.—"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."


THE ATHENAEUM.—"The book is to be recommended for the dramatic effectiveness of some of the scenes."


THE MANCHESTER EXAMINER.—"Rustic scenes 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 SPECTATOR.—"'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 Sir Conan Doyle or Mr. Stanley Weyman."


THE SCOTSMAN.—"'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."


THE DUNDEE ADVERTISER.—"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."

GOD AND MAMMON. 3s., 6d., and 6d.

THE LITERARY WORLD.—"The story is vigorously told, his struggles, his success and his love affairs are vividly described, while a strong religious tone pervades the book."


Is a story in almost a new vein for Mr. Hocking. He has written of Cornwall before, but never such a story of plot and counterplot, mystery and adventure, so deftly intermingled as this.



Although Mrs. Leighton's work is often spoken of as "melodramatic," it is of the kind that one enthuses over by reason of its emotional interest and unusual realism.


A tale comparable to "Convict 99" in its actuality and holding interest.


Marie C. Leighton has done full justice to her reputation as a writer of highly sensational and dramatic fiction.


THE COMMENTATOR.—"Altogether a most powerful and well-written novel; and one likely to maintain a permanently conspicuous position upon every library list."


THE FINANCIAL TIMES.—"With each new production Mrs. Leighton contrives to add to her reputation as a writer of sensational fiction, but we doubt if any of her previous efforts, not excepting the famous 'Convict 99,' can claim equality in this respect with 'Black Silence.'"


A fine novel of the "Convict 99" type.



DAILY NEWS AND LEADER.—"Mr. Wallace has written one of the most exciting and sensational stories we have read for some time."


THE GENTLEMAN'S JOURNAL.—"There is masculine virility in every line, and from first to last our attention is closely gripped; a grand book, unaffected and sincere."

THE RIVER OF STARS. 6s., and 6d.

Another of Mr. Edgar Wallace's strenuous tales of crime and adventure.


THE FINANCIAL TIMES.—"This is a novel abounding in excitement and fascinating throughout."


There is no lack of excitement in this brightly-written novel, which holds the attention and interest of the reader to the end.



MORNING POST.—"The characters are drawn with sincerity and vigour; the narrative holds attention at every stage."


Nearly 30,000 copies (nine editions) of the author's last novel "Souls in Pawn" have been sold, and "The Years of Forgetting" should attain even greater popularity.



One of the most enthralling stories Mr. Silas Hocking has ever written.



THE GLOBE.—"In a word, 'The Thirteenth Guest' is Fergus Hume at his best, and will doubtless please this popular author's many admirers."


As full of incident and excitement as any novel Mr. Hume has written since "The Mystery of the Hansom Cab."


THE GOLDEN GIRL. 6s., and 6d.

THE LIVERPOOL COURIER.—"The plot is very ingenious, and it is worked out after a fashion which keeps the reader's attention from start to finish."


Mr. and Mrs. Askew have, in the course of this moving story, presented a remarkable problem that is likely to be the cause of much discussion.


LAWRENCE CLAVERING. 6s., and 2s. net.

A remarkably powerful and stirring historical romance, full of life and movement.

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