inevitable combined which Mr. CONRAD so subtly conveys. It is a big
effort, and I don't feel that the author quite brings it off, yet I
cannot think of anyone but Mr. CONRAD who would have come nearer to
doing so, and the fight in the dark in this story is one that even
after the War will make a reader catch his breath for half-a-dozen
pages at least. In the second and third stories, which actually deal
with gold and iron (the first of the three is called "Wild Oranges,"
though perhaps "Blood Oranges" would have been a better title),
the writer returns to a happier _métier_, and deals with an America
remarkably interesting and wholly novel to me, an America where
foundries and railways are in their infancy and crinolines are worn.
Saloons, bowie knives and bags of gold-dust are all too familiar to
us, but who, on this side of the Atlantic at any rate, ever remembers
the quiet towns with Victorian manners to which the diggers belonged
and returned? Both "Tubal Cain" and "The Dark Fleece" are excellent
yarns and wonderful pieces of pictorial reconstruction as well.

* * * * *

After reading _The Searchers_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), I seriously
think of myself joining His Britannic Majesty's Secret Service.
All the fun and firearms, and ever, at the conclusion, a startling
surprise for your friends and admirers, among whom you stand cool,
calm and collected. _Anthony Keene-Leslie_ did not deceive me
when, upon his first introduction as a secret servant, he modestly
disclaimed the thrills and excitements commonly attributed to his
trade. I knew that many pages would not be turned before he would
land us in the middle of some crimson intrigue; mysterious strangers,
disguises, cryptic and invaluable manuscripts, urgent telegrams,
codes, Italian hidden hands, Scotland Yard, pseudo-taxicabs, clues