The Story Hunter

A year or two since, when I wrote Jethou; or Crusoe Life in the Channel Isles, I received a large number of press reviews and criticisms, all but two of which were of a very satisfactory and encouraging tone, and spoke so flatteringly of my future career as a writer of fiction, as to cause a blush--perhaps of modesty--perhaps of hope--to suffuse my lily cheek. One of the adverse critics, who must have been troubled with liver complaint in some form, took a pessimistic view of my work, doubting the facts contained in the book, and--in a literary sense--running amuck with the fictional portions. But, as he unwittingly helped the sale of the first edition of Jethou, I thank the wielder of this biting pen.

The other detractor found no particular fault with the book, but thought the writer somewhat lacking in high invention, i.e., in imaginative power.

Of course few persons see their own faults, and I had never even dreamed that I had any lack of inventive power. But now that my deficiency has been suggested to me by the critic of London’s leading daily newspaper, I venture to place the present volume before the public as an effort towards the vindication of my imaginative power, and with the earnest hope that something may be found in it of sufficient interest to repay the reader for the time spent in its perusal.

E. R. SUFFLING.

Blomfield Lodge, Portsdown Road, London, W.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

INTRODUCTION--A HYPNOTIST ON WHEELS 9

I. THE STRANGE DISCOVERY OF DOCTOR NOSIDY 15

II. TWO RUINED TOWERS 36

III. A STRANGE RESURRECTION 64

IV. A VISITOR FROM MARS 87

V. BARBE ROUGE 105

VI. ROBIN HOOD IN WINTER 124

VII. ECCLES OLD TOWER 144

VIII. THE MONK’S PENANCE 161

IX. DOCTOR ANGUS SINCLAIR 184

X. THE PHANTOM RIDERS 211

THE STORY HUNTER.

INTRODUCTION.

A HYPNOTIST ON WHEELS.

Most men have a hobby of some kind, and I am certainly no exception to the general rule. Some love boating; some painting; others carving, angling, walking, shooting, or one of a hundred other diversions. The hobbies of noted men would fill a goodly volume--thus Tosti is fond of upholstering; Gladstone of tree-felling; the Sultan of Turkey is an amateur carpenter; the Shah of Persia photographs everything he can aim his lens at; the late Lord R. Churchill collected the teeth of criminals; H.R.H. the Princess of Wales has a passion for specimens of lace; and so on.

Now I love none of these pursuits, but will confess at once that my delight is a good story; something out of the usual rut of everyday fiction; something fresh, stimulating, racy; and to gratify my hobby I have been for many years a most voluminous reader.

No scientific works for me, thank you; no dreary, three-volume, society novels; give me good, sterling works of fiction--neither namby-pamby on the one hand, nor revoltingly realistic on the other--but sound, entertaining, well-worked-out fiction.

Generally speaking, my experience of writers is disappointing. One soon finds out their style of working, and after reading a short way into a story, the dénouement can frequently be correctly conjectured. Some authors are aware of this, and purposely lead their readers upon a wrong scent quite up to the penultimate chapter, and then suddenly surprise them by reversing their preconceived idea of the final disposition of the characters represented. This is extremely puzzling to that section of lady readers who “just glance at the last chapter” before wading through the volume, and must be extremely tantalizing to them as well.