: E. W. Hornung
: The Amateur Cracksman
: Seltzer Books
: 9781455354320
: 1
: CHF 0.70
:
: Krimis, Thriller, Spionage
: English
: 567
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
Classic mystery/detective novel. According to Wikipedia: 'Ernest William Hornung (June 7, 1866 - March 22, 1921)... was an English author, most famous for writing the Raffles series of novels about a gentleman thief in late Victorian London. Hornung was the third son of John Peter Hornung, a Hungarian, and was born in Middlesbrough, England. He was educated at Uppingham School during some of the later years of its great headmaster, Edward Thring. He spent most of his life in England and France, but in 1884 left for Australia and stayed for two years where he working as a tutor at Mossgiel station. Although his Australian experience had been so short, it coloured most of his literary work from A Bride from the Bush published in 1899, to Old Offenders and a few Old Scores, which appeared after his death. He returned from Australia in 1886, and married Constance ('Connie') Doyle (1868-1924), the sister of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in 1893. Hornung published the poems Bond and Free and Wooden Crosses in The Times. The character of A. J. Raffles, a 'gentleman thief', first appeared in Cassell's Magazine in 1898 and the stories were later collected as The Amateur Cracksman (1899). Other titles in the series include The Black Mask (1901), A Thief in the Night (1905), and the full-length novel Mr. Justice Raffles (1909). He also co-wrote the play Raffles, The Amateur Cracksman with Eugene Presbrey in 1903.'

The Amateur Cracksman By E. W. Hornung


 

published by Samizdat Express, Orange, CT, USA

established in 1974, offering over 14,000 books

 

Other mysteries by E. W. Hornung:

 

  • Dead Men Tell No Tales
  • Mr. Justice Raffles
  • No Hero
  • Raffles
  • The Shadow of the Rope
  • Stingaree
  • A Thief in the Night

 

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TO A. C. D.

 

THIS FORM OF FLATTERY

 

I.

 

II.

 

III.

 

I


 

It was half-past twelve when I returned to the Albany as a last desperate resort.  The scene of my disaster was much as I had left it.  The baccarat-counters still strewed the table, with the empty glasses and the loaded ash-trays.  A window had been opened to let the smoke out, and was letting in the fog instead.  Raffles himself had merely discarded his dining jacket for one of his innumerable blazers.  Yet he arched his eyebrows as though I had dragged him from his bed.

 

"Forgotten something?" said he, when he saw me on his mat.

 

"No," said I, pushing past him without ceremony.  And I led the way into his room with an impudence amazing to myself.

 

"Not come back for your revenge, have you?  Because I'm afraid I can't give it to you single-handed.  I was sorry myself that the others--"

 

We were face to face by his fireside, and I cut him short.

 

"Raffles," said