times during the course of his drive he had been caught in a
block and had had to wait for a few seconds--once at the entrance
to Trafalgar Square, again at the junction of Haymarket and Pall
Mall, and, for a third time, opposite the Hyde Park Hotel. At
neither of these halting places had he heard any one enter or
leave the taxi. He had heard no summons from his fare, even
though a tube, which was in perfect working order, was fixed
close to the back of his head. He had known nothing, in fact,
until a policeman had stopped him, having caught a glimpse of the
ghastly face inside. There was no evidence which served to throw
a single gleam of light upon the affair. Mr. Vanderpole had
called at the Savoy Hotel upon a travelling American, who had
written to the Embassy asking for some advice as to introducing
American patents into Great Britain and France. He left there to
meet his chief, who was dining down in Kensington, with the
intention of returning at once to join the Duchess of Devenham's
theatre party. He was in no manner of trouble. It was not
suggested that any one had any cause for enmity against him. Yet
this attack upon him must have been carefully planned and carried
out by a person of great strength and wonderful nerve. The
newspaper-reading public in London love their thrills, and they
had one here which needed no artificial embellishments from the
pens of those trained in an atmosphere of imagination. The simple
truth was, in itself, horrifying. There was scarcely a man or
woman who drove in a taxicab about the west end of London during
the next few days without a little thrill of emotion.

The murder of Mr. Richard Vanderpole took place on a Thursday
night. On Monday morning a gentleman of middle age, fashionably
but quietly dressed, wearing a flower in his buttonhole, patent