That Affair at Elizabeth: Mystery & Detective Collections
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I paused, as soon as we reached the pavement, for a look about me. We were evidently in the fashionable quarter of the town. The street was wide, well-kept, and shaded by stately elms. The houses which stretched away on either hand had that spaciousness, that air of dignity and quiet, which bespeaks wealth and leisure. Here was no gaudy architecture, no flamboyant flourish of the newly-rich; rather the evidence of families long-settled in their present surroundings and long-accustomed to the luxuries of a cultured and generous existence.
But it was to the house directly before us that I gave the closest scrutiny. It was a large one, two-storied, with a wide veranda running across the entire front. It stood well back from the street, and was sheltered on each side by magnificent trees. The grounds seemed to be very extensive and were beautifully kept. Along the pavement, a curious crowd was loitering, kept in motion by a policeman, but staring at the house as though they expected to read the solution of the mystery in its inexpressive front.
Mr. Royce nodded to the officer, and we passed through the gate. As we went up the walk, I noticed that the blinds were closely drawn, as though it were a house of mourning—and, indeed, dead hopes enough lay there!
A maid admitted us, and when my companion inquired for Mr. Curtiss, led the way silently along the hall. In the dim light, I could see the decorations of palms and wreaths of smilax, relieved here and there by a mass of gorgeous bloom, and through a door to the right I caught a glimpse of many tables, set ready for the luncheon which was never to be eaten. There was something ghostly about the deserted rooms—something chilling in the thought of this arrested gaiety, these hopes for happiness so rudely shattered. It recalled that vision which had so astonished poor Pip—the vision of Miss Havisham, decked in her yellow wedding finery, sitting at her gilded dressing-table in the darkened room, with the bride-cake cobwebbed and mouldy, and the chairs set ready for the guests who were never to arrive. Only here, I reflected, the clocks should be stopped at noon, not at twenty minutes to nine!
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About the author
Burton Egbert Stevenson (1872–1962) was an American author, anthologist, and librarian. He was born at Chillicothe, Ohio on 9 November 1872, and attended Princeton University 1890–1893. He married Elizabeth Shepard Butler (1869–1960) in 1895. He died 13 May 1962 and was buried in Chillicothe, Ohio.
While at Princeton, Stevenson was a correspondent for United Press and for the New York Tribune. He was city editor for the Chillicothe Daily News (1894–1898), and worked for the Daily Advertiser (1898–1899).
Stevenson became director of the Chillicothe public library in 1899 and held that position for 58 years.
Stevenson was well known for his war efforts. At Camp Sherman, located in Chillicothe, Ohio, he established a library of 40,000 volumes and 22 branches. The Camp Sherman library was said to be a model for national efforts to establish such libraries. In 1918 he founded the American Library in Paris, and was its director from 1918–1920, and from 1925–1930. He was then made European director of the American Library Association`s Library War Service, a position he held for seven years.
As well as being a librarian, Stevenson wrote numerous novels, including four young adult's novels, edited others' works, and created numerous anthologies of verse, familiar quotations, and the like. Many of his anthologies are still in print.
Marietta College awarded him the degree of Litt.D. in 1955. Stevenson Center at Ohio University-Chillicothe is named after him.
