ONE LIGHT BURNING—R. C. Hutchinson—Farrar & Rinehart ($2.50).
In spite of the opinion of Pundit William Lyon Phelps who hailed Author Roy Cory Hutchinson’s first book (The Answering Glory) as “a shout of joy,” U. S. readers with an eye for good writing were beginning to watch Author Hutchinson closely, called him far & away better than his name-fellow, Arthur Stuart Menteth Hutchinson (If Winter Comes). After reading his second, The Unforgotten Prisoner, even level-headed critics called him better than Galsworthy. But last week, after reading his third, Author Hutchinson’s praisers modified their mounting applause, called him better than the late William J. Locke. Unless he changes his direction, he will soon be called better than Baroness Orczy. A novelist of more than average virtuosity, with the rare stereoscopic ability of making his scene both three-dimensional and alive. Author Hutchinson, in One Light Burning, has lavished his talents on a sentimental melodrama.
Greta’s honeymoon was as queer as her courtship was sudden. Her Irish bridegroom, Sandy, had a way with women and a gift of gab, but the police were after him. On the little Polish steamer in which Sandy and Greta made their getaway from Ireland was a mysterious party of five Englishmen. Leader was Andrew, brilliant bachelor Oxford don, who hid his heroic light under a staid bushel. Andrew was the type of true adventurer, as Sandy was of the shoddy. The expedition’s real purpose was not, as given out, to search for butterflies along the Baltic coast, but to hunt through northern Siberia, with or without Soviet permission, for a saintly German scholar who had disappeared somewhere in the frozen interior. Before their ship came to port Greta had seen through Sandy, and she and Andrew were almost in love. But when they landed they said goodby.
Refused permission to enter Russia, Andrew took his party in via the Arctic. One of them was killed in a crevasse, one lost a foot. Finally forced to turn back before they had found their German, they were arrested as spies. By the time they were safely out of Russia, Andrew had contracted a bad case of insomnia, daily headaches that nearly drove him crazy. A doctor told him his days were numbered, so he spent his last energy trying to find Greta again. In a little Baltic town he found her, the night ne’er-do-well Sandy was conveniently murdered.
On Greta’s willing shoulder Andrew got his first good sleep in months.
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