Up to the age of fifty years my life was as smooth and happy as any mortal could desire. Of course, in common with all men, I suffered from petty annoyances, still, no very startling event ever happened to lift me out of the common ruck of humanity. I was born of wealthy parents, I went to Eton, I migrated to Oxford, I entered the army, I left the army, I travelled here, there and everywhere, enjoyed all things, exceeded in none, and between my fortieth and fiftieth years had become one of those well-dressed, well-preserved old fogies whom you may see any day in St. James’ Street, or at the windows of respectable clubs. My life, I am afraid, has been an extremely negative one— as I did neither harm nor good, but “danderedon,” as the Scotch say, in a pleasant, aimless fashion, which had, at least, the merit of being happy.
The very name of Fergus Hume means mystery and excitement, and his detective stories show that he is a past-master in the art of creating thrills and unusual situations, of baffling and elusive intricacy. lovers of mystery stories welcome each announcement of a new book by this author, who is widely known on both sides of the atlantic.