The Caravan Crime by Fergus Hume — Read

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.