As a matter of fact, one among many results of the sudden cessation, three months since, of every sort of Anarchistic outrage, had been that the daily papers could not seem other than flat reading to a public which had previously opened these same prints each morning with apprehension and anxiety. Though the vigorous action taken by the editor of the “Daily Record,” in London, and of the “Dublin News,” in Dublin, had not, as had been expected, led to the arrest of Captain Shannon or his colleagues, it had apparently so alarmed the conspirators as to cause them to abandon their plan of campaign. The general opinion was that Captain Shannon, finding so much was known, and that, though his own identity had not been fixed, the personality of the leaders of the conspiracy was no longer a secret, had deemed it advisable to flee the country, lest the offer of so large a reward as £25,000 should tempt the cupidity of some of his colleagues. And as it always had been believed that he was the prime source and author of the whole diabolical conspiracy, the cessation of the outrages was regarded as a natural consequence of his defalcation. 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.