whose despotism is now on trial as once was
that of our kings--"unlimited crowddom being as wretched a state as
unlimited monarchy." As a dose of politics without tears I unreservedly
commend this book.

I am like Mr. JACOBS' _Night Watchman_; it's very hard to deceive me. I
had read only a few pages of Miss UNA SILBERRAD'S _The Mystery of
Barnard Hanson_ (HUTCHINSON) when I guessed who had done the murder.
Unfortunately, when I had read a few pages more, I found that I had
picked the wrong person. Then I accused another character on perfectly
good circumstantial evidence, and he was not the man. After that I
decided to withdraw from the detective business and let Miss SILBERRAD
unravel her mystery for herself. If you are of the opinion that a woman
cannot keep a secret read _The Mystery of Barnard Hanson_ and become
convinced that Miss SILBERRAD at least is an exception. If I have ever
read a more perfectly sustained mystery novel I cannot recall it. There
is just a chance that in the last few pages you may get on the right
track, but, if you are honest with yourself, you will have to admit that
you did it simply by a process of elimination, after you had made an ass
of yourself and arrested every innocent person in the book on suspicion.
I think it is Miss SILBERRAD'S manner that throws the detective reader
out of his stride. She is so detached. She conveys the impression that
she herself is just as puzzled as you are, and that, for all she knows,
_Barnard Hanson_ may have been murdered by somebody who is not in the
book at all. In other words she gives her story just that reality which
a murder mystery has when unfolded day by day in the papers. I confess
that, when I unwrapped the book and found that a polished artist like
Miss SILBERRAD had written a detective story, I was a little shocked;
but I need not have been. There are no dummies in this novel. Each
character is as excellently drawn as if delineation of character were
the author's main object; and in the matter of style there is no
concession to the tastes of the cruder public which makes murder novels
its staple diet.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Mistress._ "I see you had a card from your young man at
the Front, Mary."

_Mary._ "Yes'm. And wasn't it a saucy one! I wonder it passed the
sentry."]

* * * * *

In her preface to _Morlac of Gascony_ (HUTCHINSON) Mrs. STEPNEY RAWSON
apologizes f