CHAPTER I

INTRODUCING MR. PETER RUFF


There was nothing about the supper party on that particular Sunday
evening in November at Daisy Villa, Green Street, Streatham, which
seemed to indicate in any way that one of the most interesting
careers connected with the world history of crime was to owe its
very existence to the disaster which befell that little gathering.
The villa was the residence and also - to his credit - the
unmortgaged property of Mr. David Barnes, a struggling but fairly
prosperous coal merchant of excellent character, some means, and
Methodist proclivities. His habit of sitting without his coat when
carving, although deprecated by his wife and daughter on account of
the genteel aspirations of the latter, was a not unusual one in the
neighbourhood; and coupled with the proximity of a cold joint of
beef, his seat at the head of the table, and a carving knife and
fork grasped in his hands, established clearly the fact of his
position in the household, which a somewhat weak physiognomy might
otherwise have led the casual observer to doubt. Opposite him, at
the other end of the table, sat his wife, Mrs. Barnes, a somewhat
voluminous lady with a high colour, a black satin frock, and many
ornaments. On her left the son of the house, eighteen years old,
of moderate stature, somewhat pimply, with the fashion of the moment
reflected in his pink tie with white spots, drawn through a gold
ring, and curving outwards to seek obscurity underneath a dazzling