The Caravan Crime

Along a twisting country lane, warm and dusty, and richly colored by the
dying radiance of a July sunset, jangled a battered caravan, as brown
and worn as the ancient horse which lugged it reluctantly onward. From
innumerable hooks on back, front, and sides dangled tin cans, iron
kettles, bristling brooms, bundles of brushes, and such-like domestic
necessaries, together with goat-skin rugs, woollen mats, reach-me-down
suits, carpet clippers, and many pairs of stout boots. The whole crazy
vehicle, with its hawkers' stock-in-trade, creaked and groaned and
labored complainingly, as if on the verge of disintegration.

Not so the driver--presumably the owner. He sat rigidly upright, holding
the reins alert for adventure; slim and straight, and spare as a poplar;
filled to the brim with the fiery wine of youth. Handsome, too, a woman
would have declared at the sight of that clean-shaven face, bronzed,
smooth-skinned, oval, with clear-cut features, and closely-clipped dark
hair. The young man's firm mouth, watchful grey eyes, strong jaw, and
square chin revealed him as an inborn master of his fellows. He should
have been commanding men in war, controlling some big business in peace;
somehow governing, somehow dictating.

Yet here he was in a dingy grey riding suit and a shabby cap, with
disreputable gaiters and heavy boots, driving an equally disreputable
caravan for the traffic of gipsy merchandise. His being in such a galley
would certainly have startled M. Jourdain, that innocent gentleman, who
was only surprised when he found virtue in unexpected places. A country
policeman, who was strolling along the lane, knew nothing of Moliere's
hero, but he felt much the same when the dreary old caravan rumbled
round the corner. The enigmatic driver was the very last person he
expected to meet in his back-water of Life's tumultuous river.