THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS

CONTENTS

1. The Man Who Died
2. The Milkman Sets Out on his Travels
3. The Adventure of the Literary Innkeeper
4. The Adventure of the Radical Candidate
5. The Adventure of the Spectacled Roadman
6. The Adventure of the Bald Archaeologist
7. The Dry-Fly Fisherman
8. The Coming of the Black Stone
9. The Thirty-Nine Steps
10. Various Parties Converging on the Sea



CHAPTER ONE

The Man Who Died

I returned from the City about three o'clock on that May afternoon
pretty well disgusted with life. I had been three months in the Old
Country, and was fed up with it. If anyone had told me a year ago that
I would have been feeling like that I should have laughed at him; but
there was the fact. The weather made me liverish, the talk of the
ordinary Englishman made me sick, I couldn't get enough exercise, and
the amusements of London seemed as flat as soda-water that has been
standing in the sun. 'Richard Hannay,' I kept telling myself, 'you
have got into the wrong ditch, my friend, and you had better climb out.'

It made me bite my lips to think of the plans I had been building up
those last years in Bulawayo. I had got my pile--not one of the big
ones, but good enough for me; and I had figured out all kinds of ways
of enjoying myself. My father had brought me out from Scotland at the
age of six, and I had never been home since; so England was a sort of
Arabian Nights to me, and I counted on stopping there for the rest of
my days.

But from the first I was disappointed with it. In about a week I was
tired of seeing sights, and in less than a month I had had enough of
restaurants and theatres and race-meetings. I had no real pal to go
about with, which probably explains things. Plenty of people invited
me to their houses, but they didn't seem much interested in me. They
would fling me a question or two about South Africa, and then get on
their own affairs. A lot of Imperialist ladies asked me to tea to meet
schoolmasters from New Zealand and editors from Vancouver, and that was
the dismalest business of all. Here was I, thirty-seven years old,
sound in wind and limb, with enough money to have a good time, yawning
my head off all day. I had just about settled to clear out and get
back to the veld, for I was the best bored man in the United Kingdom.

That afternoon I had been worrying my brokers about investments to give
my mind something to work on, and on my way home I turned into my
club--rather a pot-house, which took in Colonial members. I had a long
drink, and read the evening papers. They were full of the row in the
Near East, and there was an article about Karolides, the Greek Premier.
I rather fancied the chap. From all accounts he seemed the one big man
in the show; and he played a straight game too, which was more than
could be said for most of them. I gathered that they hated him pretty
blackly in Berlin and Vienna, but that we were going to stick by him,
and one paper said that he was the only barrier between Europe and
Armageddon. I remember wondering if I could get a job in those parts.
It struck me that Albania was the sort of place that might keep a man
from yawning.

About six o'clock I went home, dressed, dined at the Cafe Royal, and
turned into a music-hall. It was a silly show, all capering women and
monkey-faced men, and I did not stay long. The night was fine and
clear as I walked back to the flat I had hired near Portland Place.
The crowd surged past me on the pavements, busy and chattering, and I
envied the people for having something to do. These shop-girls and
clerks and dandies and policemen had some interest in life that kept
them going. I gave half-a-crown to a beggar because I saw him yawn; he
was a fellow-sufferer. At Oxford Circus I looked up into the spring
sky and I made a vow. I would give the Old Country another day to fit
me into something; if nothing happened, I would take the next boat for
the Cape.

My flat was the first floor in a new block behind Langham Place. There
was a common staircase, with a porter and a liftman at the entrance,
but there was no restaurant or anything of that sort, and each flat was
quite shut off from the others. I hate servants on the premises, so I
had a fellow to look after me who came in by the day. He arrived
before eight o'clock every morning and used to depart at seven, for I
never dined at home.

I was just fitting my key into the door when I noticed a man at my
elbow. I had not seen him approach, and the sudden appearance made me
start. He was a slim man, with a short brown beard and small, gimlety
blue eyes.