The Daily Graphic.--"In 'The Counterstroke' the author has surpassed his previous efforts and given us a tale which is daring in its conception and powerful in its narration. From the first page, on which we are introduced to the 'Academy of ex-Ambassadors' and Mr. Perigord, their mysterious master, down to the last, the book never loses its hold upon the reader."
Dundee Advertiser.--"Ambrose Pratt is to be heartily congratulated on the imaginary gifts and the marvellous ingenuity displayed in his book. It is one of absorbing interest, and the reader pursues with almost breathless eagerness the many and varied experiences of Lord Francis Crossingham, the brave hero of the book."
The People's Journal.--"There have been many Nihilist novels written, but few which contain the grip and strength of Mr. Ambrose Pratt's story. His plot is daring to a degree. It is worked out with an ingenuity which cannot but appeal to all those readers who like a cleverly-constructed romance in which the interest is kept up to the end."
The Evening News.--"A novel never to be forgotten."
Belfast Northern Whig.--"A story which keeps the reader absorbed all the time."
The Dublin Daily Express.--"A novel which should be eagerly read, and anyone who reads it will look eagerly for further books from Mr. Pratt's pen."
The Newcastle Chronicle.--"Tremendously exciting."
Southport Visitor.--"Crowded with incident, is full of excitement, and abounds in dramatic and delicate situations."
Leeds Mercury.--"Written in vigorous and dashing style, the story will certainly commend itself to a wide circle of readers."
[Frontispiece: "In another second I had him by the throat." (Page 189)
_First Person Paramount_] [_Frontispiece_]
"VIGOROUS DAUNT: BILLIONAIRE," ETC., ETC.
My name is Agar Hume. My mother died when I was two years old. My father was the first violin in a second-rate music hall orchestra at Birmingham. He had once been a gentleman. He taught me French and how to play the flute. Between whiles he treated me like a dog. He wished me to become a member of his orchestra. My tastes, however, inclined to the stage. From early childhood I had possessed an almost perfect talent for mimicry. When I was nineteen years old, there was not an artist I had ever seen whom I could not represent to the life. One morning, about that time, in a fit of drunken rage my father gave me a terrible beating. I was then somewhat undersized--the result of irregular meals and bad food. I could neither retaliate nor defend myself. That night, as soon as my father had set off for the theatre, I ran away from home. I walked to Liverpool, and easily obtained employment at a music hall, where for three years I nightly imitated every actor and person of note whom the Liverpudlians wished to see. They grew tired of me at last and ceased to applaud my turn. I was promptly discharged by the management. Not caring to return to Birmingham, as my father had never forgiven me for deserting him, I made my way to London. I had saved a little money, and I thought that before it was spent I should procure a new engagement. The London market, however, was simply glutted with mimics, and before three months had passed I was penniless and still without a place. I haunted the theatres and employment agencies to no purpose. I was obliged to pawn my wardrobe, and at last a day came when I stood in the Strand owning nothing in the world but the suit of decent black I wore and my make-up box, which I carried in my hand because I had been turned out of my lodging-house that morning. I had not tasted food for four-and-twenty hours. I mentioned the latter fact ten minutes later to the manager of the next employment agency I visited. He had seen me so often that he knew me well, and he sympathized with my misfortune.