Grodman was ushered into the conscientious Minister's study. The doughty
chief of the agitation was, perhaps, the one man who could not be
denied. As he entered, the Home Secretary's face seemed lit up with
relief. At a sign from his master, the amanuensis who had brought in the
last telegram took it back with him into the outer room where he worked.
Needless to say not a tithe of the Minister's correspondence ever came
under his own eyes.
"You have a valid reason for troubling me, I suppose, Mr. Grodman?" said
the Home Secretary, almost cheerfully. "Of course it is about Mortlake?"
"It is; and I have the best of all reasons."
"Take a seat. Proceed."
"Pray do not consider me impertinent, but have you ever given any
attention to the science of evidence?"
"How do you mean?" asked the Home Secretary, rather puzzled, adding,
with a melancholy smile, "I have had to lately. Of course, I've never
been a criminal lawyer, like some of my predecessors. But I should
hardly speak of it as a science; I look upon it as a question of
common-sense."
"Pardon me, sir. It is the most subtle and difficult of all the
sciences. It is, indeed, rather the science of the sciences. What is the
whole of Inductive Logic, as laid down, say, by Bacon and Mill, but an
attempt to appraise the value of evidence, the said evidence being the
trails left by the Creator, so to speak? The Creator has--I say it in
all reverence--drawn a myriad red herrings across the track, but the
true scientist refuses to be baffled by superficial appearances in
detecting the secrets of Nature. The vulgar herd catches at the gross
apparent fact, but the man of insight knows that what lies on the
surface does lie."
"Very interesting, Mr. Grodman, but really----"
"Bear with me, sir. The science of evidence being thus so extremely
subtle, and demanding the most acute and trained observation of facts,
the most comprehensive understanding of human psychology, is naturally
given over to professors who have not the remotest idea that 'things are
not what they seem,' and that everything is other than it appears; to
professors, most of whom, by their year-long devotion to the
shop-counter or the desk, have acquired an intimate acquaintance with
all the infinite shades and complexities of things and human nature.
When twelve of these professors are put in a box, it is called a jury.
When one of these professors is put in a box by himself, he is called a
witness. The retailing of evidence--the observation of the facts--is
given over to people who go through their lives without eyes; the
appreciation of evidence--the judging of these facts--is surrendered to
people who may possibly be adepts in weighing out pounds of sugar. Apart
from their sheer inability to fulfill either function--to observe, or to
judge--their observation and their judgment alike are vitiated by all
sorts of irrelevant prejudices."
"You are attacking trial by jury."
"Not necessarily. I am prepared to accept that scientifically, on the
ground that, as there are, as a rule, only two alternatives, the balance
of probability is slightly in favor of the true decision being come to.
Then, in cases where experts like myself have got up the evidence, the
jury can be made to see through trained eyes."
The Home Secretary tapped impatiently with his foot.
"I can't listen to abstract theorizing," he said. "Have you any fresh
concrete evidence?"
"Sir, everything depends on our getting down to the root of the matter.
What percentage of average evidence should you think is thorough, plain,
simple, unvarnished fact, 'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth'?"
"Fifty?" said the Minister, humoring him a little.
"Not five. I say nothing of lapses of memory, of inborn defects of
observational power--though the suspiciously precise recollection of
dates and events possessed by ordinary witnesses in important trials
taking place years after the occurrences involved, is one of the most
amazing things in the curiosities of modern jurisprudence. I defy you,
sir, to tell me what you had for dinner last Monday, or what exactly you
were saying and doing at five o'clock last Tuesday afternoon. Nobody
whose life does not run in mechanical grooves can do anything of the
sort; unless, of course, the facts have been very impressive. But this
by the way. The great obstacle to veracious observation is the element
of prepossession in all vision. Has it ever struck you, sir, that we
never see anyone more than once, if that? The first time we meet a man
we may possibly see him as he is; the second time our vision is colored
and modified by the memory of the first. Do our friends appear to us as
they appear to strangers? Do our rooms, our furniture, our pipes strike
our eye as they would strike the eye of an outsider, looking on them for
the first time? Can a mother see her babe's ugliness, or a lover his
mistress' shortcomings, though they stare everybody else in the face?
Can we see ourselves as others see us? No; habit, prepossession changes
all. The mind is a large factor of every so-called external fact. The
eye sees, sometimes, what it wishes to see, more often what it expects
to see. You follow me, sir?"
The Home Secretary nodded his head less impatiently. He was beginning to
be interested. The hubbub from without broke faintly upon their ears.
"To give you a definite example. Mr. Wimp says that when I burst open
the door of Mr. Constant's room on the morning of December 4th, and saw
that the staple of the bolt had been wrested by the pin from the lintel,
I jumped at once to the conclusion that I had broken the bolt. Now I
admit that this was so, only in things like this you do not seem to
conclude, you jump so fast that you see, or seem to. On the other hand,
when you see a standing ring of fire produced by whirling a burning
stick, you do not believe in its continuous existence. It is the same
when witnessing a legerdemain performance. Seeing is not always
believing, despite the proverb; but believing is often seeing. It is not
to the point that in that little matter of the door Wimp was as
hopelessly and incurably wrong as he has been in everything all along.
Though the door was securely bolted, I confess that I should have seen
that I had broken the bolt in forcing the door, even if it had been
broken beforehand. Never once since December 4th did this possibility
occur to me, till Wimp with perverted ingenuity suggested it. If this is
the case with a trained observer, one moreover fully conscious of this
ineradicable tendency of the human mind, how must it be with an
untrained observer?"
"Come to the point, come to the point," said the Home Secretary, putting
out his hand as if it itched to touch the bell on the writing-table.
"Such as," went on Grodman imperturbably, "such as--Mrs. Drabdump. That
worthy person is unable, by repeated violent knocking, to arouse her
lodger who yet desires to be aroused; she becomes alarmed, she rushes
across to get my assistance; I burst open the door--what do you think
the good lady expected to see?"
"Mr. Constant murdered, I suppose," murmured the Home Secretary,
wonderingly.
"Exactly. And so she saw it. And what should you think was the condition
of Arthur Constant when the door yielded to my violent exertions and
flew open?"
"Why, was he not dead?" gasped the Home Secretary, his heart fluttering
violently.
"Dead? A young, healthy fellow like that! When the door flew open Arthur
Constant was sleeping the sleep of the just. It was a deep, a very deep
sleep, of course, else the blows at his door would long since have
awakened him. But all the while Mrs. Drabdump's fancy was picturing her
lodger cold and stark the poor young fellow was lying in bed in a nice
warm sleep."
"You mean to say you found Arthur Constant alive?"
"As you were last night."
The minister was silent, striving confusedly to take in the situation.
Outside the crowd was cheering again. It was probably to pass the time.
"Then, when was he murdered?"
"Immediately afterward."
"By whom?"
"Well, that is, if you will pardon me, not a very intelligent question.
Science and common-sense are in accord for once. Try the method of
exhaustion. It must have been either by Mrs. Drabdump or by myself."
"You mean to say that Mrs. Drabdump----!"
"Poor dear Mrs. Drabdump, you don't deserve this of your Home Secretary!
The idea of that good lady!"
"It was you!"
"Calm yourself, my dear Home Secretary. There is nothing to be alarmed
at. It was a solitary experiment, and I intend it to remain so." The
noise without grew louder. "Three cheers for Grodman! Hip, hip, hip,
hooray," fell faintly on their ears.
But the Minister, pallid and deeply moved, touched the bell. The Home
Secretary's home secretary appeared. He looked at the great man's
agitated face with suppressed surprise.
"Thank you for calling in your amanuensis," said Grodman. "I intended to
ask you to lend me his services. I suppose he can write shorthand."
The minister nodded, speechless.
"That is well. I intend this statement to form the basis of an appendix
to the twenty-fifth edition--sort of silver wedding--of my book,
'Criminals I Have Caught,' Mr. Denzil Cantercot, who, by the will I have
made to-day, is appointed my literary executor, will have the task of
working it up with literary and dramatic touches after the model of the
other chapters of my book. I have every confidence he will be able to do
me as much justice, from a literary point of view, as you, sir, no doubt
will from a legal. I feel certain he will succeed in catching the style
of the other chapters to perfection."
"Templeton," whispered the Home Secretary, "this man may be a lunatic.
The effort to solve the Big Bow Mystery may have addled his brain.
Still," he added aloud, "it will be as well for you to take down his
statement in shorthand."
"Thank you, sir," said Grodman, heartily. "Ready, Mr. Templeton? Here
goes. My career till I left the Scotland-Yard Detective Department is
known to all the world. Is that too fast for you, Mr. Templeton? A
little? Well, I'll go slower; but pull me up if I forget to keep the
brake on. When I retired, I discovered that I was a bachelor. But it was
too late to marry. Time hung on my hands. The preparation of my book,
'Criminals I Have Caught,' kept me occupied for some months. When it was
published I had nothing more to do but think. I had plenty of money, and
it was safely invested; there was no call for speculation. The future
was meaningless to me; I regretted I had not elected to die in harness.
As idle old men must, I lived in the past. I went over and over again my
ancient exploits; I re-read my book. And as I thought and thought, away
from the excitement of the actual hunt, and seeing the facts in a truer
perspective, so it grew daily clearer to me that criminals were more
fools than rogues. Every crime I had traced, however cleverly
perpetrated, was from the point of view of penetrability a weak failure.
Traces and trails were left on all sides--ragged edges, rough-hewn
corners; in short, the job was botched, artistic completeness
unattained. To the vulgar, my feats might seem marvelous--the average
man is mystified to grasp how you detect the letter 'e' in a simple
cryptogram--to myself they were as commonplace as the crimes they
unveiled. To me now, with my lifelong study of the science of evidence,
it seemed possible to commit not merely one, but a thousand crimes that
should be absolutely undiscoverable. And yet criminals would go on
sinning, and giving themselves away, in the same old grooves--no
originality, no dash, no individual insight, no fresh conception! One
would imagine there were an Academy of crime with forty thousand
armchairs. And gradually, as I pondered and brooded over the thought,
there came upon me the desire to commit a crime that should baffle
detection. I could invent hundreds of such crimes, and please myself by
imagining them done; but would they really work out in practice?
Evidently the sole performer of my experiment must be myself; the
subject--whom or what? Accident should determine. I itched to commence
with murder--to tackle the stiffest problems first, and I burned to
startle and baffle the world--especially the world of which I had ceased
to be. Outwardly I was calm, and spoke to the people about me as usual.
Inwardly I was on fire with a consuming scientific passion. I sported
with my pet theories, and fitted them mentally on everyone I met. Every
friend or acquaintance I sat and gossiped with, I was plotting how to
murder without leaving a clue. There is not one of my friends or
acquaintances I have not done away with in thought. There is no public
man--have no fear, my dear Home Secretary--I have not planned to
assassinate secretly, mysteriously, unintelligibly, undiscoverably. Ah,
how I could give the stock criminals points--with their second-hand
motives, their conventional conceptions, their commonplace details,
their lack of artistic feeling and restraint.
"The late Arthur Constant came to live nearly opposite me. I cultivated
his acquaintance--he was a lovable young fellow, an excellent subject
for experiment. I do not know when I have ever taken to a man more. From
the moment I first set eyes on him, there was a peculiar sympathy
between us. We were drawn to each other. I felt instinctively he would
be the man. I loved to hear him speak enthusiastically of the
Brotherhood of Man--I, who knew the brotherhood of man was to the ape,
the serpent, and the tiger--and he seemed to find a pleasure in stealing
a moment's chat with me from his engrossing self-appointed duties. It is
a pity humanity should have been robbed of so valuable a life. But it
had to be. At a quarter to ten on the night of December 3d he came to
me. Naturally I said nothing about this visit at the inquest or the
trial. His object was to consult me mysteriously about some girl. He
said he had privately lent her money--which she was to repay at her
convenience. What the money was for he did not know, except that it was
somehow connected with an act of abnegation in which he had vaguely
encouraged her. The girl had since disappeared, and he was in distress
about her. He would not tell me who it was--of course now, sir, you know
as well as I it was Jessie Dymond--but asked for advice as to how to set
about finding her. He mentioned that Mortlake was leaving for Devonport
by the first train on the next day. Of old I should have connected these
two facts and sought the thread; now, as he spoke, all my thoughts were
dyed red. He was suffering perceptibly from toothache, and in answer to
my sympathetic inquiries told me it had been allowing him very little
sleep. Everything combined to invite the trial of one of my favorite
theories. I spoke to him in a fatherly way, and when I had tendered some
vague advice about the girl, and made him promise to secure a night's
rest (before he faced the arduous tram-men's meeting in the morning) by
taking a sleeping-draught, I gave him some sulfonal in a phial. It is a
new drug, which produces protracted sleep without disturbing the
digestion, and which I use myself. He promised faithfully to take the
draught; and I also exhorted him earnestly to bolt and bar and lock
himself in so as to stop up every chink or aperture by which the cold
air of the winter's night might creep into the room. I remonstrated with
him on the careless manner he treated his body, and he laughed in his
good-humored, gentle way, and promised to obey me in all things. And he
did. That Mrs. Drabdump, failing to rouse him, would cry 'Murder!' I
took for certain. She is built that way. As even Sir Charles
Brown-Harland remarked, she habitually takes her prepossessions for
facts, her inferences for observations. She forecasts the future in
gray. Most women of Mrs. Drabdump's class would have behaved as she did.
She happened to be a peculiarly favorable specimen for working on by
'suggestion,' but I would have undertaken to produce the same effect on
almost any woman under similar conditions. The only uncertain link in
the chain was: Would Mrs. Drabdump rush across to get me to break open
the door? Women always rush for a man. I was well-nigh the nearest, and
certainly the most authoritative man in the street, and I took it for
granted she would."
"But suppose she hadn't?" the Home Secretary could not help asking.
"Then the murder wouldn't have happened, that's all. In due course
Arthur Constant would have awoke, or somebody else breaking open the
door would have found him sleeping; no harm done, nobody any the wiser.
I could hardly sleep myself that night. The thought of the extraordinary
crime I was about to commit--a burning curiosity to know whether Wimp
would detect the _modus operandi_--the prospect of sharing the feelings
of murderers with whom I had been in contact all my life without being
in touch with the terrible joys of their inner life--the fear lest I
should be too fast asleep to hear Mrs. Drabdump's knock--these things
agitated me and disturbed my rest. I lay tossing on my bed, planning
every detail of poor Constant's end. The hours dragged slowly and
wretchedly on toward the misty dawn. I was racked with suspense. Was I
to be disappointed after all? At last the welcome sound came--the
rat-tat-tat of murder. The echoes of that knock are yet in my ear. 'Come
over and kill him!' I put my night-capped head out of the window and
told her to wait for me. I dressed hurriedly, took my razor, and went
across to 11 Glover Street. As I broke open the door of the bedroom in
which Arthur Constant lay sleeping, his head resting on his hands, I
cried, 'My God!' as if I saw some awful vision. A mist as of blood
swam before Mrs. Drabdump's eyes. She cowered back, for an instant
(I divined rather than saw the action) she shut off the dreaded
sight with her hands. In that instant I had made my cut--precisely,
scientifically--made so deep a cut and drew out the weapon so sharply
that there was scarce a drop of blood on it; then there came from the
throat a jet of blood which Mrs. Drabdump, conscious only of the horrid
gash, saw but vaguely. I covered up the face quickly with a handkerchief
to hide any convulsive distortion. But as the medical evidence (in this
detail accurate) testified, death was instantaneous. I pocketed the
razor and the empty sulfonal phial. With a woman like Mrs. Drabdump to
watch me, I could do anything I pleased. I got her to draw my attention
to the fact that both the windows were fastened. Some fool, by the by,
thought there was a discrepancy in the evidence because the police found
only one window fastened, forgetting that, in my innocence, I took care
not to fasten the window I had opened to call for aid. Naturally I did
not call for aid before a considerable time had elapsed. There was Mrs.
Drabdump to quiet, and the excuse of making notes--as an old hand. My
object was to gain time. I wanted the body to be fairly cold and stiff
before being discovered, though there was not much danger here; for, as
you saw by the medical evidence, there is no telling the time of death
to an hour or two. The frank way in which I said the death was very
recent disarmed all suspicion, and even Dr. Robinson was unconsciously
worked upon, in adjudging the time of death, by the knowledge (query
here, Mr. Templeton) that it had preceded my advent on the scene.
"Before leaving Mrs. Drabdump there is just one point I should like to
say a word about. You have listened so patiently, sir, to my lectures on
the science of sciences that you will not refuse to hear the last. A
good deal of importance has been attached to Mrs. Drabdump's
oversleeping herself by half an hour. It happens that this (like the
innocent fog which has also been made responsible for much) is a purely
accidental and irrelevant circumstance. In all works on inductive logic
it is thoroughly recognized that only some of the circumstances of a
phenomenon are of its essence and causally interconnected; there is
always a certain proportion of heterogeneous accompaniments which have
no intimate relation whatever with the phenomenon. Yet so crude is as
yet the comprehension of the science of evidence, that every feature of
the phenomenon under investigation is made equally important, and sought
to be linked with the chain of evidence. To attempt to explain
everything is always the mark of the tyro. The fog and Mrs. Drabdump's
oversleeping herself were mere accidents. There are always these
irrelevant accompaniments, and the true scientist allows for this
element of (so to speak) chemically unrelated detail. Even I never
counted on the unfortunate series of accidental phenomena which have led
to Mortlake's implication in a network of suspicion. On the other hand,
the fact that my servant Jane, who usually goes about ten, left a few
minutes earlier on the night of December 3d, so that she didn't know of
Constant's visit, was a relevant accident. In fact, just as the art of
the artist or the editor consists largely in knowing what to leave out,
so does the art of the scientific detector of crime consist in knowing
what details to ignore. In short, to explain everything is to explain
too much. And too much is worse than too little. To return to my
experiment. My success exceeded my wildest dreams. None had an inkling
of the truth. The insolubility of the Big Bow Mystery teased the acutest
minds in Europe and the civilized world. That a man could have been
murdered in a thoroughly inaccessible room savored of the ages of magic.
The redoubtable Wimp, who had been blazoned as my successor, fell back
on the theory of suicide. The mystery would have slept till my death,
but--I fear--for my own ingenuity. I tried to stand outside myself, and
to look at the crime with the eyes of another, or of my old self. I
found the work of art so perfect as to leave only one sublimely simple
solution. The very terms of the problem were so inconceivable that, had
I not been the murderer, I should have suspected myself, in conjunction
of course with Mrs. Drabdump. The first persons to enter the room would
have seemed to me guilty. I wrote at once (in a disguised hand and over
the signature of 'One Who Looks Through His Own Spectacles') to the
'Pell Mell Press' to suggest this. By associating myself thus with Mrs.
Drabdump I made it difficult for people to dissociate the two who
entered the room together. To dash a half-truth in the world's eyes is
the surest way of blinding it altogether. This letter of mine I
contradicted myself (in my own name) the next day, and in the course of
the long letter which I was tempted to write I adduced fresh evidence
against the theory of suicide. I was disgusted with the open verdict,
and wanted men to be up and doing and trying to find me out. I enjoyed
the hunt more. Unfortunately, Wimp, set on the chase again by my own
letter, by dint of persistent blundering, blundered into a track
which--by a devilish tissue of coincidences I had neither foreseen nor
dreamt of--seemed to the world the true. Mortlake was arrested and
condemned. Wimp had apparently crowned his reputation. This was too
much. I had taken all this trouble merely to put a feather in Wimp's
cap, whereas I had expected to shake his reputation by it. It was bad
enough that an innocent man should suffer; but that Wimp should achieve
a reputation he did not deserve, and overshadow all his predecessors by
dint of a colossal mistake, this seemed to me intolerable. I have moved
heaven and earth to get the verdict set aside and to save the prisoner;
I have exposed the weakness of the evidence; I have had the world
searched for the missing girl; I have petitioned and agitated. In vain.
I have failed. Now I play my last card. As the overweening Wimp could
not be allowed to go down to posterity as the solver of this terrible
mystery, I decided that the condemned man might just as well profit by
his exposure. That is the reason I make the exposure to-night, before it
is too late to save Mortlake."
"So that is the reason?" said the Home Secretary with a suspicion of
mockery in his tones.
"The sole reason."
Even as he spoke a deeper roar than ever penetrated the study. The crowd
had again started cheering. Impatient as the watchers were, they felt
that no news was good news. The longer the interview accorded by the
Home Secretary to the chairman of the Defense Committee, the greater the
hope his obduracy was melting. The idol of the people would be saved,
and "Grodman" and "Tom Mortlake" were mingled in the exultant plaudits.
"Templeton," said the Minister, "have you got down every word of Mr.
Grodman's confession?"
"Every word, sir."
"Then bring in the cable you received just as Mr. Grodman entered the
house."
Templeton went back into the outer room and brought back the cablegram
that had been lying on the Minister's writing-table when Grodman came
in. The Home Secretary silently handed it to his visitor. It was from
the Chief of Police of Melbourne, announcing that Jessie Dymond had just
arrived in that city in a sailing vessel, ignorant of all that had
occurred, and had been immediately dispatched back to England, having
made a statement entirely corroborating the theory of the defense.
"Pending further inquiries into this," said the Home Secretary, not
without appreciation of the grim humor of the situation as he glanced at
Grodman's ashen cheeks, "I have reprieved the prisoner. Mr. Templeton
was about to dispatch the messenger to the governor of Newgate as you
entered this room. Mr. Wimp's card-castle would have tumbled to pieces
without your assistance. Your still undiscoverable crime would have
shaken his reputation as you intended."
A sudden explosion shook the room and blent with the cheers of the
populace. Grodman had shot himself--very scientifically--in the heart.
He fell at the Home Secretary's feet, stone dead.
[Illustration: He fell at the Home Secretary's feet, stone dead.]
Some of the workingmen who had been standing waiting by the shafts of
the hansom helped to bear the stretcher.
THE END.
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MICHAEL'S CRAG. Allen.
MIDDLEMARCH. Eliot.
MILL ON THE FLOSS. Eliot.
MINE OWN PEOPLE AND IN BLACK AND WHITE. Kipling.
MONASTERY, THE Scott.
MRS. ANNIE GREEN. Read.
MY LADY NICOTINE. Barrie.
NEWCOMES. Thackeray.
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. Dickens.
NORTH AGAINST SOUTH. Verne.
OLD MORTALITY. Scott.
ONE OF THE FORTY. Daudet.
ON THE HEIGHTS. Auerbach.
ORIGIN OF SPECIES. Darwin.
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. Dickens.
PAGAN OF THE ALLEGHANIES. Ryan.
PATHFINDER. Cooper.
PAUL CLIFFORD. Lytton.
PELHAM. Lytton.
PERE GORIOT. Balzac.
PHANTOM RICKSHAW. Kipling.
PICKWICK PAPERS. Dickens.
PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE. Lytton.
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. Bunyan.
PIONEERS. Cooper.
PIRATE. Scott.
PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS. Kipling.
PRAIRIE. Cooper.
PRETTY MICHAL. Jokai.
PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF DAVID. Ingraham.
QUENTIN DURWARD. Scott.
RED GAUNTLET. Scott.
REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. Grey.
RETURN OF THE NATIVE. Hardy.
RIENZI. Lytton.
ROBINSON CRUSOE. Defoe.
ROB ROY. Scott.
ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. Corelli.
ROMOLA. Eliot.
ST. RONAN'S WELL. Scott.
SARCHEDON. Whyte-Melville.
SCARLET LETTER. Hawthorne.
SCOTT'S POEMS. Scott.
SCOTTISH CHIEFS. Porter.
SEA WOLVES. Pemberton.
SHADOW OF A CRIME. Caine.
SHE FELL IN LOVE WITH HER HUSBAND. Werner.
SIGN OF THE FOUR. Doyle.
SILENCE OF DEAN MAITLAND. Grey.
SKETCH BOOK. Irving.
SOLDIERS THREE. Kipling.
SON OF HAGAR. Caine.
SONG OF HIAWATHA. Longfellow.
SQUAW ELOUISE. Ryan.
STORY OF AN AFRICAN FARM. Schreiner.
STRANGE STORY. Lytton.
STRONGER THAN DEATH. Gautier.
STUDY IN SCARLET. Doyle.
STUDY OF GENIUS. Royse.
SURGEON'S DAUGHTER. Scott.
SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON. Wyss.
TALE OF TWO CITIES. Dickens.
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. Lamb.
TALISMAN. Scott.
THADDEUS OF WARSAW. Porter.
THELMA. Corelli.
THREE MEN IN A BOAT. Jerome.
TOILERS OF THE SEA. Hugo.
TOLD IN THE HILLS. Ryan.
TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. Hughes.
TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS. Hughes.
TREASURE ISLAND. Stevenson.
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Stowe.
UNDER THE DEODARS AND STORY OF THE GADSBYS. Kipling.
UNDER TWO FLAGS. Ouida.
UP TERRAPIN RIVER. Read.
VANITY FAIR. Thackeray.
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Goldsmith.
WAVERLY. Scott.
WEE WILLIE WINKIE. Kipling.
WESTWARD HO. Kingsley.
WE TWO. Lyall.
WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE. Allen.
WHITE COMPANY. Doyle.
WOODLANDERS. Hardy.
WOODSTOCK. Scott.
ZANONI. Lytton.