I was thinking of Captain Shannon and of the suddenness with which he had dropped out of public notice while I walked up Fleet Street on this particular morning. As I passed the “Daily Chronicle” buildings and glanced at the placards displayed in the window I could not help contrasting in my mind the unimportant occurrences which were there in small type set forth, with the news of the terrible outrage which had leapt to meet the eye from the same window three months since. Just as I approached the office of the “Daily Record” I heard the sound of the sudden and hurried flinging open of a door, and the next moment a man, wild-eyed, white-faced, and hatless, rushed out into the road shouting, “Murder! murder! police! murder!” at the top of his voice.
In an instant the restless, hurrying human streams that ebb and flow ceaselessly in the narrow channel of Fleet Street—like contending rivers running between lofty banks—had surged up in a huge wave around him. In the next a policeman, pushing back the crowd with his right hand and his left, had forced a way to the man’s side, inquiring gruffly, “Now then, what’s up? And where?”
“Murder! The editor’s just been stabbed in his room by Captain Shannon or one of his agents. Don’t let any one out. The assassin may not have had time to get away,” was the rejoinder.
There are no police officers more efficient and prompt to act than those of the City of London, and on this occasion they acquitted themselves admirably. Other constables had now hurried up, and at once proceeded to clear a space in front of the “Record” office, forming a cordon on each side of the road, and allowing no one to pass in or out.
A messenger was despatched in haste for the nearest doctor, and when guards had been set at every entrance to, and possible exit from, the “Record” office, two policemen passed within the building to pursue inquiries, and the doors were shut and locked. Among the crowd outside the wildest rumours and speculations were rife.
“The editor of the ‘Record’ had been murdered by Captain Shannon himself, who had come on purpose to wreak vengeance for the attitude the paper had taken up in regard to the conspiracy.”
“The murderer had been caught red-handed and was now in custody of the police.”
“The murderer was concealed somewhere on the premises, and had in his possession an infernal machine with which it would be possible to wreck half Fleet Street.”
(This last report had the effect of causing a temporary diversion in favour of the side streets.)
“The murderers had got clean away and the whole staff of the ‘Record’ had been arrested on suspicion.” These and many other rumours were passed from mouth to mouth and repeated with astonishing variations until the arrival of the doctor, who was by various well-informed persons promptly recognised as, and authoritatively pronounced to be, Captain Shaw, the Chief Commissioner of Police, the Lord Mayor, and Sir Augustus Harris.