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. Every door, window, and letter-box became an object of fearsome curiosity. People were half inclined to wonder how they could so many times have passed the “Record” office without recognising something of impending tragedy about the building--something of historic interest in the shape of the very window-panes and key-holes. One man among the crowd attained enviable celebrity by announcing that he “see the editor go up that passage and through that door--the very door where he’d gone through that morning afore he was murdered--scores of times, _and didn’t think nothink of it_,” which last admission seemed to impress the crowd with the fact that here at least was a fellow whose praiseworthy modesty deserved encouragement. Meanwhile no sign of anything having transpired was to be seen within the building, and people were beginning to get impatient when, from somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Thames Embankment, came that sound so familiar to Cockney ears--a sound which no true Londoner can hear with indifference--the hoarse vociferation of the newsvendors proclaiming some sensational news. At first it was nothing but a distant babel, like the husky barking of dogs, but as it drew nearer the shouts became more distinguishable, and I caught the words, “’Ere yer are, sir! ‘Sun,’ sir! Murder of a heditor this mornin’! ’Ere yer are, sir!” “That’s smart, that is!” said a fellow who was standing next to me in the crowd. “T. P. O’Connor don’t let no grass grow under his feet, ’e don’t. Why, the murdered man ain’t ’ardly cold, and ’ere it is all in the ‘Sun!’”