Having had an unexpectedly delightful time with one of Ramble House’s loons in The Claws of the Cougar (1957) by Norman Berrow last week, I headed with similarly low expectations into another author from their stable, the equally-variable Walter S. Masterman. The Hunted Man (1938) is, incredibly, my fifteenth read by Masterman, and I still don’t really feel that I know him as an author, especially as this dramatically reverses the downward trend of the last couple of his I read. With about six of his books remaining to me, I’d be amazed if I didn’t read all his works, but there’s as good a chance of them all being superb as there is of every single one driving me to distraction. For god’s sake, Walter, pick a lane; please.