J. S. Fletcher

“ I exclaimed. “They belong to a London gentleman, stopping at the Shooting Star! Pepita!—that London gentleman is my undesirable relative, Uncle Joseph Krevin! Sure and certain!”
Pepita looked at me with admiring eyes.
“Ben!” she said. “Why don’t you go in for being a detective? I think you’d be an awful good hand! And it’s a lot more exciting than sitting in a law office.” ”

“ Still, there’s no harm in doing a bit of detective work now and then, and I’m going to do a bit now. Come on, to the edge of the cliff.”
Pepita followed me to where the promontory sank sheer down to the ravine through which the little river ran to the sea. Below us, on the other bank, lay Wreddlesham, dead-alive as a decaying place can be. But I looked little at its red roofs and grey walls; all my attention was given to the Shooting Star, a big, rambling old inn that stood between the Eastern Wharf and the village. ”

“ I daresay I’d do awfully well as a detective; I’m beginning to learn a lot about it, and how it’s done. But I’ve been destined for the Law ever since I was twelve years old, and I’m going to have a career in it, Pepita—never you fear! ”