"Rupert of Hentzau" (Arrowsmith, 6s.), makes an admirable book for holiday reading. It has all the lightness and sparkle of Mr. Anthony Hope's style. In thrilling interest, the boldness of its situations, and the skill with which the complicated skein of an intricate conspiracy is unwound, "Rupert of Hentzau" does not fall below "The Prisoner of Zenda." Mr. Hope, like his hero Rudolf Rassendyll, has learnt how slow suspicion is, if the deception be bold enough. It is only likely frauds that are detected. If we are to accept this as the test of safety, Mr. Hope's characters can play their parts with the utmost assurance of remaining undetected. "Rupert of Hentzau" is filled with battle, murder, and sudden death. When we leave the Prisoner of Zenda the Kingdom of Ruritana is once more at peace. But it was a calm which precedes a fresh storm. A single spark was sufficient to set everything in conflagration. This spark is supplied by a letter written by Queen Flavia to Rudolf of Rassendyll. The letter falls into the hands of Rupert of Hentzau, who sees in it a means of defeating his enemies and regaining his position in Ruritana. Mr. Hope describes the working of the two conspiracies, one to place the letter in the hands of King Rudolf, and the other to prevent the letter reaching him. The letter is finally destroyed, but almost all the principal characters have perished in the struggle. King Rudolf, Rupert of Hentzau, and Rudolf Rassendyll all die violent deaths. Queen Flavia alone remains to lament the death of husband and lover, and to reign in Ruritana. Grim old Colonel Sapt is as resourceful and cool as ever. Only on one occasion does his ingenuity fail him. He is in the hunting lodge with the dead body of King Rudolf. Affairs are in an exceedingly complicated condition. Rassendyll has been recognised and acclaimed king in the capital, owing to his remarkable resemblance to the deceased monarch. The difficulty is how to dispose of the body. James, Mr. Rassendyll's body servant, suggests burning the lodge. They decide to leave the actual execution of the project to fate, but they prepare the way. There is something grim about the conception and carrying out of the scheme. Mr. Hope thus describes it:—

The mockery, real or assumed, in which they had begun their work, had vanished now. If they were not serious they played at seriousness. If they entertained no intention such as their acts seemed to indicate, they could no longer deny that they cherished a hope. They shrank, or at least Sapt shrank, from setting such a ball rolling; but they longed for the fate that would give it a kick, and they made smooth the incline down which it, when thus compelled, was to run.

Fate certainly does run its course in the tale. It defeats the best-laid plans, and in the moment of victory claims its own. But with this one exception, the human agents play their part with a determination which knows not hesitation. There are so many death-scenes, that to describe one cannot spoil the reader's appetite for the others. It should rather whet it. This is how Rupert of Hentzau met his doom. He and Rudolf Rassendyll had fought a death-struggle in an attic in the Konigstrasse. Rupert's hour had come. An eye-witness thus describes what happened:—

Rupert's teeth were biting his under-lip, the sweat dropped, and the veins swelled large and blue on his forehead; his eyes were set on Rudolf Rassendyll. Fascinated, I drew nearer. Then I saw what passed. Inch by inch Rupert's arm curved, the elbow bent, the hand that had pointed almost straight from him and at Mr. Rassendyll pointed now away from both towards the window, But the motion did not stop; it followed the line of a circle; now it was on Rupert's arm, still it moved, and quicker now, for the power of resistance grew less. Rupert was beaten; he felt it. And knew it, and I read the knowledge in his eyes. The revolver, held still in the man's own hand, was at his heart. The motion ceased, the point was reached. I looked again at Rupert. Now his face was easier; there was a slight smile on his lips; he flung back his comely head and rested thus against the wainscoting; his eyes asked a question of Rudolf Rassendyll. I turned my eyes to where the answer was to come, for Rudolf made none in words. By the swiftest of movements he shifted his grasp from Rupert's wrist and pounced on his hand. New his forefinger rested on Rupert's, and Rupert's was on the trigger. Now it was crooked round seeming like a man who strangles another. I will say no more, He smiled to the last; his proud head, which had never bent for shame, did not bend for fear. There was a sudden tightening in the pressure of that crooked forefinger, a flash, a noise. He was held up against the wall for a moment by Rudolf's hand: and when that was removed he sank, a heap that looked all head and knees.