Edgar Wallace

Anti-hero vigilante, one Henry Arthur Milton, aka The Ringer, a legendary assassin who killed for personal vengeance. On Inspector Wembury of Scotland Yard's first day as the new commander of Deptford Division; his immediate superior Chief Inspector Bliss, is back from America full of ideas, his fianc e has just taken a job as secretary to a local lawyer Maurice Meister, a murderous criminal who Wembury knows - but cannot prove - was responsible for his fiancee's brother ending up in jail term for a robbery. Wembury's day is made miserably when the news that The Ringer confirmed dead in Australia, is back in London and desiring vengeance.-Large cast

Part I THE DUKE ARRIVES I The local directory is a useful institution to the stranger, but the intimate directory of suburbia, the libellous "Who's Who," has never and will never be printed. Set in parallel columns, it must be clear to the meanest intelligence that, given a free hand, the directory editor could produce a volume which for sparkle and interest, would surpass the finest work that author has produced, or free library put into circulation. Thus: - AUTHORIZED STATEMENT. PRIVATE AMENDMENT. KYMOTT CRESCENT. 44. Mr. A. B. Wilkes. Wilkes drinks: comes home Merchant. in cabs which he can ill afford. Young George Wilkes is a most insufferable little beast, uses scent in large quantities. Mrs. W. has not had a new dress for years. 56. Mr. T. B. Coyter. Coyter has three stories which Accountant. he *will* insist upon repeating. Mrs. C. smokes and is considered a little fast. No children: two cats, which Mrs. C. calls "her darlings." C. lost a lot of money in a ginger beer enterprise. 66. Mrs. Terrill. Very close, not sociable, in fact, "stuck up." Daughter rather pretty, but stand-offish-believed to have lived in great style before Mr. T. died, but now scraping along on 200 a year. Never give parties and seldom go out. 74. Mr. Nape Retired civil servant. Son Roderick supposed to be very clever; never cuts his hair: a great brooder, reads too many trashy detective stories. And so on ad infinitum, or rather until the portentous and grave pronouncement "Here is Kymott Terrace" shuts off the Crescent, its constitution and history. There are hundreds of Kymott Crescents in London Suburbia, populated by immaculate youths of a certain set and rigid pattern, of girls who affect open-worked blouses and short sleeves, of deliberate old gentlemen who water their gardens and set crude traps for the devastating caterpillar. And the young men play cricket in snowy flannels, and the girls get hot and messy at tennis, and the old gentlemen foregather in the evening at the nearest open space to play bowls with some labour and no little dignity. So it was with the Crescent.