It has often struck me as being a remarkable circumstance that, in nine cases out of ten, a man’s success in life is not found in the career he originally chose for himself, but in another and totally different one. That mysterious power, “force of circumstances,” is doubtless responsible for this, and no better illustration for my argument could be found than my own case. I believe my father intended that I should follow the medical profession, while my mother hoped I would enter the Church. My worthy uncle, Clutterfield, the eminent solicitor of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, offered me my Articles, and would possibly have eventually taken me into partnership. But I would have none of these things. My one craving was for the sea. If I could not spend my life upon salt water, existence would have no pleasure for me. My father threatened, my mother wept, Uncle Clutterfield prophesied all sorts of disasters, but I remained firm.

“Very well,” said my father, when he realized that further argument was hopeless, “since you must go to sea, go to sea you certainly shall. But you mustn’t blame me if you find that the life is not exactly what you anticipate, and that you would prefer to find yourself on dry land once more.”

I willingly gave this promise, and a month later left Liverpool as an apprentice on the clipper ship Maid of Normandy. Appropriately enough the captain’s name was Fairweather, and he certainly was a character in his way. In fact the whole ship’s company were originals. Had my father searched all England through he could not have discovered a set of men, from the captain to the cook’s mate, who would have been better calculated to instil in a young man’s heart a distaste for Father Neptune and his oceans. In the number of the various books of the sea I have encountered, was one entitled, A Floating Hell. When reading it I had not expected to have the misfortune to be bound aboard a vessel of this type. It was my lot, however, to undergo the experience. We carried three apprentices, including myself, each of whom had paid a large sum for the privilege. I was the youngest. The eldest was the son of a country parson, a mild, decent lad, who eventually deserted and became a house-painter in the South Island of New Zealand. The next was washed overboard when we were rounding the Horn on our homeward voyage. Poor lad, when all was said and done he could not have been much worse off, for his life on board was a disgrace to what is sometimes erroneously called, “Human Nature.” In due course, as we cleared for San Francisco, and long before we crossed the Line, I was heartily tired of the sea. In those days, few years ago as it is, sailors were not so well protected even as they are now, and on a long voyage aboard a sailing ship it was possible for a good deal to happen that was not logged, and much of which was forgotten before the vessel reached its home-port again. When I returned from my first voyage, my family inquired how I liked my profession, and, with all truth, I informed them that I did not like it at all, and that I would be willing to have my indentures cancelled and to return to shore life once more, if I might be so permitted. My father smiled grimly, and seemed to derive considerable satisfaction from the fact that he had prophesied disaster from the outset.

“No,” he said, “you have made your bed, my lad, and now you must lie upon it. There is still a considerable portion of your apprenticeship to be served, and it will be quite soon enough for us at the end of that time to decide what you are to do.”

A month later I was at sea again, bound this time for Sydney. We reached that port on my nineteenth birthday, and by that time I had made up my mind. Articles or no Articles, I was determined to spend no more of my life on board that hateful ship. Accordingly, one day having obtained shore leave, I purchased a new rig-out, and leaving my sea-going togs with the Jewish shopman, I made tracks, as the saying goes, into the Bush with all speed. Happen what might, I was resolved that Captain Fairweather should not set eyes on George Fairfax again.

From that time onward my career was a strange one. I became a veritable Jack-of-all-Trades. A station-hand, a roust-about, shearer, assistant to a travelling hawker, a gold-miner, and at last a trooper in one of the finest bodies of men in the world, the Queensland Mounted Police. It was in this curious fashion that I arrived at my real vocation. After a considerable period spent at headquarters, I was drafted to a station in the Far West. There was a good deal of horse and sheep-stealing going on in that particular locality, and a large amount of tact and ingenuity were necessary to discover the criminals. I soon found that this was a business at which I was likely to be successful. More than once I had the good fortune to be able to bring to book men who had carried on their trade for years, and who had been entirely unsuspected. Eventually my reputation in this particular line of business became noised abroad, until it came to the ears of the Commissioner himself. Then news reached us that a dastardly murder had been committed in the suburbs of Brisbane, and that the police were unable to obtain any clue as to the identity of the person accountable for it. Two or three men were arrested on suspicion, but were immediately discharged on being in a position to give a satisfactory account of their actions on the night of the murder. It struck me that I should like to take up the case, and with the confidence of youth, I applied to the Commissioner for permission to be allowed to try my hand at unravelling the mystery. What they thought of my impudence I cannot say, but the fact remains that my request, after being backed up by my Inspector, was granted. The case was a particularly complicated one, and at one time I was beginning to think that I should prove no more successful than the others had been. Instead of deterring me, however, this only spurred me on to greater efforts. The mere fact that I had asked to be allowed to take part in the affair, had aroused the jealousy of the detectives of the department, and I was aware that they would receive the news of my failure with unqualified satisfaction. I therefore prosecuted my inquiries in every possible direction, sparing myself neither labour nor pains. It would appear that the victim, an old man, was without kith or kin. He was very poor, and lived by himself in a small villa on the outskirts of the city. No one had been seen near the house on the night in question, nor had any noise been heard by the neighbours. Yet in the morning he was discovered lying on the floor of the front-room, stabbed to the heart from behind. Now every detective knows — indeed it is part of his creed — that, in an affair such as I am describing, nothing is too minute or too trivial to have a bearing upon the case. The old gentleman had been at supper when the crime was committed, and from the fact that the table was only laid for one, I argued that he had not expected a visitor. The murderer could not have been hungry, for the food had not been touched. That the motive was not robbery was also plain from the fact that not a drawer had been opened or a lock forced, while the money in his pocket was still intact. The doctors had certified that the wound could not have been self-inflicted, while there was plenty of evidence to show that there had not been a struggle. From the fact that the front-door was locked, and that the key was in the murdered man’s pocket, it was certain that the assassin must have left the house by the back. There was one question, however, so trivial in itself that one might have been excused for not taking note of it, that attracted my attention. As I have said, the old man had been stabbed from behind, and when he was discovered by the police next day, his overturned chair was lying beside him. This, to my mind, showed that he had been seated with his back to the door when the crime had been perpetrated. When I had examined everything else, I turned my attention to the chair. I did not expect it to tell me anything, yet it was from it that I obtained the clue that was ultimately to lead to the solution of the whole mystery. The chair was a cheap one, made of white wood, and had the usual smooth strip of wood at the top. On the back of this piece of wood, a quarter of an inch or so from the bottom, on the left-hand side, was a faint smear of blood. The presence of the blood set me thinking. When found, the chair had been exactly eighteen inches from the body. The mere fact that the man had been stabbed from behind and to the heart, precluded any possibility of his having jumped up and caught at the back of the chair afterwards. Placing my left hand upon the back, I clasped my fingers under the piece of wood above-mentioned, to discover that a portion of the second finger fell exactly upon the stain.

“Now I think I understand the situation,” I said to myself. “The old man was seated at the table, about to commence his meal, when the murderer entered very quietly by the door behind him. He rested his left hand upon the chair to steady himself while he aimed the fatal blow with his right.”

But in that case how did the knife touch the middle finger of his left hand? From the fact that the body was discovered lying upon its back just as it had fallen, and that the chair was also still upon the floor, it was evident that the blood must have got there before, not after, the crime was committed. Leaving the room I went out to the yard at the back and studied the paling fence. The partition which separated the yard from that of the house next door, was old, and in a very dilapidated condition, while that at the bottom was almost new, and was armed at the top with a row of bristling nails. Bringing the powerful magnifying-glass I had brought with me for such a purpose, to bear upon it, I examined it carefully from end to end. The result more than justified the labour. A little more than half way along I discovered another small smear of blood. There could be no doubt that the man had cut his finger on a nail as he had climbed over on his murderous errand. The next and more important thing was to decide how this information was to be made useful to me. Since nothing had been taken from the house, and the old man had been quite unprepared for the attack that was to be made upon him, I set the whole crime down as being one of revenge. In that case what would the assassin be likely to do after his object was obtained? Would he vanish into the Bush forthwith, or get away by sea?

After I had finished my inspection of the fence I visited every public-house in the neighbourhood in the hope of finding out whether a man with a wounded hand had been seen in any of them on the night of the murder. I was totally unsuccessful, however. No one recollected having seen such a man. From the hotels I went to various chemists’ shops, but with the same result. Next I tried the shipping-offices connected with the lines of steamers leaving the port, but with no more, luck than before. The case seemed rapidly going from bad to worse, and already it had been suggested that I should give it up and return to my duty without further waste of time. This, as you may naturally suppose, I had no desire to do.

I worried myself about it day and night, giving it a great deal more attention in fact than I should bestow upon such a matter now, or even upon cases of twice the importance. If there had been nothing else in my favour, my attention to duty should have been sufficient to have commended me to my superiors. It was the other way round, however. The Press were twitting the authorities concerning their inability to discover the murderer, and more than hinted at the inefficiency of the Detective Force. When I had been engaged upon the matter for about a fortnight, and with what success I have already informed you, the Commissioner sent for me, and told me that he did not think my qualifications were sufficiently marked to warrant my being employed longer on the task in hand. This facer, coming upon the top of all the hard work I had been doing, and possibly my nerves were somewhat strained by my anxiety, led me to say more than I intended. Though a man may have the bad luck to fail in a thing, he seldom likes to be reminded of it. It was certainly so in my case. Consequently I was informed that at the end of the month my connection with the Queensland Police would terminate.

“Very well, sir,” I said, “in the meantime, if you will give me the opportunity, I will guarantee to catch the murderer and prove to you that I am not as incapable as you imagine.”

I have often wondered since that I was not ordered back to the Bush there and then. The fact remains, however, that I was not, and thus I was permitted to continue my quest unhindered.

Ever since I had first taken the affair in hand I had had one point continually before my eyes. The mere fact that the man had been stabbed in the back seemed to me sufficient proof that the assassin was of foreign origin, and that the affair was the outcome of a vendetta, and not the act of an ordinary bloodthirsty crime. The wound, so the doctors informed me, was an extremely deep and narrow one, such as might very well have been made by a stiletto. Assuming my supposition to be correct, I returned to the house, and once more overhauled the dead man’s effects. There was little or nothing there, however, to help me. If he had laid himself out to conceal the identity of his enemy he could scarcely have done it more effectually. Baffled in one direction, I turned for assistance to another. In other words, I interviewed his left-hand neighbour, a lady with whom I had already had some slight acquaintance. Our conversation took place across the fence that separated the two properties.

“Do you happen to be aware,” I asked, when we touched upon the one absorbing topic, “whether the unfortunate gentleman had ever been in Europe?”

“He had been almost everywhere,” the woman replied. “I believe he was a sailor at one time, and I have often heard him boast that he knew almost every seaport in the world.”

“I suppose you never heard him say whether he had lived in Italy?” I inquired.

“He used to mention the country now and again,” she said. “If it was a fine morning he would sometimes remark that it was a perfect Italian sky. But nothing more than that.”

I was about to thank her and move away when she stopped me with an exclamation.

“Wait one moment,” she said, “now I come to think of it, I remember that about three months ago he received a letter from Italy. I’ll tell you how I came to know it. I was standing in the front verandah when the postman brought up the letters. He gave me mine, and then I noticed that the top letter he held in his hand had a foreign stamp. Now, my little boy, Willie, collects stamps; he’s tired of them now, but that doesn’t matter. At that time, however, he was so taken up with them that he could talk of nothing else. Well, as I was saying, I noticed this stamp, and asked the postman what country it came from. He told me it was from Italy, and that the letter was for the gentleman next door. ‘The next time I see him,’ I said to myself, ‘I’ll ask him for that stamp for Willie.’ I had my opportunity that self-same minute, for, just as I was going down the garden there to where my husband was doing a little cabbage-planting, he came into his front verandah. He took the letter from the postman, and as he looked at the envelope, I saw him give a start of surprise. His face was as white as death when he opened it, and he had no sooner glanced at it than he gave a sort of stagger, and if it hadn’t been for the verandah-rail I believe he’d have fallen. He was so taken aback that I thought he was going to faint. I was standing where you may be now, and I called out to him to know whether I could do anything for him. I liked the man, you see, and pitied him for his loneliness. What’s more, he and my husband had always been on friendly terms together. Well, as I was going on to say, he didn’t answer, but pulling himself together, went into the house and shut the door. When next I saw him he was quite himself again.”

At last the case was beginning to look more hopeful. I thought I could see a faint spark of light ahead.

“Did you happen to say anything about this to the other detectives when they were making inquiries after the crime had been committed?” I asked, with a little anxiety.

“No, I did not,” she replied. “I never gave it a thought. It was such a long time before the murder, you see, and to tell the truth I had forgotten all about it. It was only when you began to talk of Italy and of his having been there, that I remembered it. You don’t mean to say you think that letter had something to do with the man’s death?”

“That is a very difficult question to answer,” I observed. “I think, however, it is exceedingly likely it may have had some connection with it. At any rate we shall see. Now will you think for one moment, and see whether you can tell me the exact day on which that letter arrived?”

She considered for a few moments before she answered.

“I believe I can, if you will give me time to turn it over in my mind,” she said. “My husband was at home that morning, and Willie, that’s my little boy, was very much upset because I would not let him stay away from school to help his father in the garden. Yes, sir, I can tell you the exact date. It was on a Monday, and the third of June.”

I thanked her for the information she had given me, and then went off to see what use it was likely to prove to me. The letter from Italy had been delivered in Brisbane on the third of June. The murder was committed on the night of the nineteenth of July, or, in other words, forty-six days later. With all speed I set off to the office of the Royal Mail Steamship Company, where I asked to be shown their passenger-list for the vessel that arrived on the nineteenth of July. When it was handed to me I scanned it eagerly in the hope of discovering an Italian name. There were at least a dozen in the steerage, and one in the first-class. I was relieved, however, to find that all but the first-class passengers had disembarked at Cairns, further up the coast. The name of the exception was Steffano Gairdi, and he was a passenger from Naples.

“You can’t tell me anything more definite about this gentleman, I suppose?” I said to the clerk who was attending to me. “Did you happen to see him?”

“He was in here only this morning,” the man replied.

“Here, when?” I inquired, with such surprise that the other clerks looked up from their books at me in astonishment. “Do you mean to tell me that the gentleman I am asking about was here this morning?”

“I do,” he replied. “He came in to book his return passage to Italy. He only undertook the voyage for the sake of his health.”

“Then it’s just possible you may know where he is staying now?” I asked, not however with much hope of success. “If you can tell me, I shall be under an obligation to you.”

“I can tell you that also,” the young man answered. “He is staying at the Continental Hotel in Adelaide Street.”

“I am more obliged to you than I can say,” I returned. “You have rendered me a great service.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the clerk. “I am very glad to have been able to give you the information you required.”

I thanked him once more and left the office. Now if Mr. Steffano Gairdi happened to have a cut or the mark of one upon the inside of his left hand, I felt that I should be within measurable distance of the end of the affair. But how was I to get a view of his hands? If he were the man I wanted, he would probably be on his guard, and he had already proved himself to be sufficiently acute to make me careful how I went to work with him. I had no time to lose, however. The next boat sailed for Europe in two days’ time, and he had booked his passage in her. For that reason alone, I knew that I must be quick if I wished to accumulate sufficient evidence against him to justify the issue of a warrant for his arrest. I accordingly walked on to the Continental Hotel, and asked to see the manager, with whom I had the good fortune to be acquainted. I was shown into his private office, and presently he joined me there. He was familiar with my connection with the police force, and laughingly remarked that he hoped I had not called upon him in my official capacity.

“As a matter of fact that is just what I am doing,” I replied. “I want you to give me some information concerning one of your guests. I believe I am right in saying that you have an Italian gentleman, named Gairdi, staying at your hotel?”

“That is certainly so,” he admitted. “I hope there is nothing against him?”

“It is rather soon to say that,” I said. “I am suspicious of the man — and I want to ask you a few questions concerning him.”

“As many as you like,” he returned. “I cannot say, however, that I know very much about him. He has been up the country, and only returned to Brisbane yesterday.”

“Is this the first occasion on which he has stayed here?”

“No,” the manager replied. “He was here nearly a month ago for a couple of nights, and he had had his room reserved for him while he was away.”

“Perhaps you can tell me if he slept here on the night of July the nineteenth?”

“If you will excuse me for a moment I can soon let you know,” said the manager, and then crossed the room to go into an outer office. A few moments later he returned and nodded his head. “Yes, he slept here that night, and went to Toowoomba next day.”

“One more question, and then I have done. Did you happen to notice that night, or before he left next day, whether he had hurt his left hand?”

“It’s strange that you should speak of that,” said the manager. “He had cut his left hand rather badly with a broken glass, so he told us. We gave him some sticking-plaster to do it up with.”

“That will do beautifully,” I said. “And now perhaps you will add to the kindness you have already done me by letting me see the gentleman in question. I don’t want to speak to him, but I want to impress his countenance upon my mind.”

“Why not go into lunch?” the manager inquired. “You will then be able to study him to your heart’s content, without his being any the wiser. You’re not in uniform, and no one would take you for a detective.”

“An excellent idea,” I replied. “By the way, while I am upon the subject, I suppose I can rely upon your saying nothing about the matter to him, or to any one else?”

“You may depend upon me implicitly,” he answered. “I should be scarcely likely to do so, for my own sake. I trust the matter is not a very serious one. I should not like to have any scandal in the hotel.”

“Well, between ourselves,” I observed, “I am afraid it is rather a serious affair. But you may be sure I will do all I can to prevent your name or the hotel’s being mixed up in it.”

Then, as he had proposed, I followed him into the dining-room and took my place at a small table near the window. At that adjoining me, a tall, swarthy individual, with close-cropped hair, an Italian without doubt, was seated. He glanced at me as I took my place, and then continued his meal as if he were unaware of my presence in the room.

By the time I had finished my lunch I had thoroughly impressed his face and personality upon my memory, and felt sure that, if necessary, I should know him anywhere again. My labours, however, were by no means over; in fact they were only just beginning. What I had against him so far would scarcely be sufficient to justify our applying for a warrant for his arrest. If I wanted to bring the crime home to him, it would be necessary for me to connect him with it more closely than I had yet done. But how to do this in the short space of time that was at my disposal I could not see. The murderer, as I have already said, was no ordinary one, and had laid his plans with the greatest care. He had taken away the knife, and in all probability had got rid of it long since. No one had seen him enter the house on the night in question, nor had any one seen him leave it again. I was nearly beside myself with vexation. To be so near my goal, and yet not be able to reach it, was provoking beyond endurance. But my lucky star was still in the ascendant, and good fortune was to favour me after all.

As I have already observed, when the crime had become known, the permanent detective force had been most assiduous in the attentions they had given it. The only piece of valuable evidence, however, that they had been able to accumulate, was a footprint on a flower-bed near the centre of the yard, and another in the hall of the house itself. Now it was definitely settled, by a careful comparison of these imprints, that the murderer, whoever he might have been, wore his boots down considerably on the left heel, and on the inside. Now, as every bootmaker will tell you, while the outer is often affected in this way, the inner side seldom is. I noticed, however, that this was the case with the man I suspected. The heel of his left boot was very much worn down and on the inside. The right, however, was intact.

On leaving the Continental Hotel, I made my way to the Police Commissioner’s office, obtained an interview with him, and placed the evidence I had gleaned before him. He was good enough to express his approval of my endeavours, but was doubtful whether the case against the Italian was strong enough yet to enable us to definitely bring the crime home to the man.

“At any rate it will justify our issuing a warrant for his arrest,” he said, “and that had better be done with as little delay as possible. Otherwise he will be out of the country.”

A warrant was immediately procured and an officer was detailed to accompany me in case I should need his assistance. When we reached the Continental Hotel I inquired for Se?or Gairdi, only to be informed that he had left the hotel soon after lunch.

“It is only what I expected,” I said to my companion. “His suspicions are aroused, and he is going to try and give us the slip.”

“I think not,” said the manager. “I fancy you will find that he is on board the steamer. You must remember that she sails at daybreak.”

We accordingly hastened to the river, and made our way to where the steamer was lying. On arrival on board I inquired for the head-steward, and when he put in an appearance inquired whether Se?or Gairdi had come aboard yet.

“He brought his luggage on board, and inspected his cabin about three o’clock,” that official replied, “and then went ashore again.”

There was nothing for it therefore but for us to await his return. Though we did not know it, we were in for a long spell, for it was not until nearly nine o’clock that our man reappeared on board. He had just crossed the gangway and was making his way along the promenade deck, when I accosted him.

“May I have a word with you, Se?or Gairdi?” I asked.

“Yes, certainly,” he replied, speaking with only a slight foreign accent. “What is it you want?”

I drew him a few paces further along the deck, so that, if possible, the other passengers, who were standing near, should not hear what I had to say to him.

“I have to tell you,” I said, “that I hold a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murdering one, Joseph Spainton, on the night of July the nineteenth of this year. I must caution you that anything you may say will be used as evidence against you.”

The nearest electric light shone full and clear upon his face, and I noticed that a queer expression had suddenly made its appearance upon it. Apart from that, he did not seem at all surprised at his arrest.

“So you have found it out after all,” he said. “I thought I was going to evade suspicion and get away safely. You would not have caught me then. It is Fate, I suppose.”

He shrugged his shoulders and said something under his breath in Italian.

“Must I go ashore with you?” he asked.

“If you please,” I answered, marvelling that he should take it so coolly.

Then turning his dark eyes upon me, he continued —

“Se?or, in Italy I am a gentleman, and my name, which is not Gairdi, is an honoured one. What I am accused of, and what I admit doing, was no crime. The dead man was a traitor, and I was deputed to kill him. I did it, and this is the end.”

“HE FELL WITH A CRASH AT MY FEET.”

The words had scarcely left his lips before he took a revolver from his coat-pocket, placed it to his right temple and, before I could prevent him, had pulled the trigger. He fell with a crash at my feet, and before the ship’s doctor could be brought to his side, he was dead. Who he really was, or to what Secret Society he belonged — for his last words to me warranted the belief that he was a member of some such organization — we were never able to discover. He was dead, and there was an end to it. Such is the story of the first big case in which I was engaged, and one that led me step by step to the position I now hold. I have told it perhaps at somewhat greater length than I need have done, but I trust the reader will forgive me. As a matter of fact I am rather proud of it; more so perhaps than I have any reason to be.

Having resigned my position in the police of the Northern Colony, I was not to be tempted to reconsider my decision. My liking for the life, however, and my interest in the unravelling of mysterious crimes, proved too strong, and I joined the Detective Staff in Melbourne, seeing in their service a good deal of queer life and ferreting out not a small number of extraordinary cases. The experience gained there was invaluable, and led me, after one particularly interesting piece of business in which I had the good fortune to be most successful, to entertain the notion of quitting Government employ altogether, and setting up for myself. I did so, and soon had more work upon my hand than I could very well accomplish. But I was too ambitious to be content with small things, and eventually came to the conclusion that there was not enough scope in the Colonies for me. After fifteen years’ absence, therefore, I returned to England, spending a year in the Further East en route in order to enlarge my experience, and to qualify myself for any work that might come to me from that quarter.

On a certain bitterly cold day in January I reached Liverpool from the United States, and took the train for my old home. My father and mother had long since died, and now all that remained to me of them was the stone slab that covered their resting place in the quiet little churchyard at the foot of the hill.

“Well, here I am,” I said to myself, “thirty-three years old, and alone in the world. Nobody knows me in England, but it won’t be my fault if they don’t hear of George Fairfax before very long. I’ll be off to London and try my fortune there.”

Next day I made my way to the Great Metropolis, and installed myself at a small private hotel, while I looked about me preparatory to commencing business. To talk of gaining a footing in London is all very well in its way, but it is by no means so easy a task to accomplish as it might appear. Doubtless it can be done fairly quickly if one is prepared to spend large sums of money in advertising, and is not afraid to blow one’s own trumpet on every possible occasion, but that is not my line, and besides, even had I so wished, I had not the money to do it. For a multitude of reasons I did not feel inclined to embark my hard-earned savings on such a risky enterprise. I preferred to make my way by my own diligence, and with that end in view I rented an office in a convenient quarter, furnished it, put a small advertisement in a few of the papers, and then awaited the coming of my clients.

As I have a long and curious story to tell, and this book is only intended to be the narration of a certain episode in my life, a detailed description of my first three years in London would not only be superfluous, but in every way a waste of time. Let it suffice that my first case was that of the now notorious Pilchard Street Diamond Robbery, my success in which brought me business from a well known firm in Hatton Gardens. As the public will doubtless remember, they had been robbed of some valuable gems between London and Amsterdam in a singularly audacious manner. My second was the case of the celebrated Russian swindler, who called herself the Countess Demikoff. This case alone took me nearly six months to unravel, but I did not grudge the time, seeing that I was well paid for my labours, and that I managed to succeed where the police had failed. From that time forward I think I may say without boasting that I have been as successful as any man of my age has a right to expect to be. What is better still, I am now in the happy position of being able to accept or decline business as I choose. It is in many respects a hard life, and at all times is attended with a fair amount of risk, but you cannot make omelets without breaking eggs, and if any one chooses to spend his life running to earth men who are waging war against Society, well, he must not grumble if he receives some hard knocks in return.

After these preliminaries I will proceed to show how I came to be mixed up in the most curious case it has ever been my good, or evil, fortune to encounter. It showed me a side of human nature I had not met before, and it brought me the greatest happiness a man can ever hope to find.