On this particular New Year's morning, Doctor Murdock was seated in his study, apparently absorbed in reading the daily papers, a pile of which lay upon his table. His occupation might perhaps more accurately be described as skimming the daily papers; for each journal in turn was subjected to a rapid scrutiny, and only a few columns seemed occasionally to interest the reader. There was no haste visible in the Doctor's actions, each one of which appeared to be performed with the coolness and deliberation of a man who is not the slave of time; and yet, so systematic were they, that, all lost motion being avoided, every operation was rapidly completed. In a short time the pile of newspapers had been disposed of, and the Doctor, lighting a choice cigar, leaned back in his comfortable armchair and placidly puffed the wreathes of fragrant smoke ceilingward. He was apparently satisfied with the world and with himself, this calm, passionless man. And yet a sharp observer would have noted an almost imperceptible furrow between the eyes, which might perhaps have indicated only the healthy mental activity of an ordinary man; but which, in one given so little to outward manifestation of feeling as Doctor Murdock, might also betoken more or less serious annoyance or displeasure. While the chemist sat in this pensive attitude, there was a rustle of skirts outside, and presently there came a gentle knock at the door of the study. "Come in!" said Murdock, removing the cigar from his lips. The door opened, admitting a tall and beautiful young girl, evidently not long out of her teens. "Do I disturb you, father?" she asked, stepping lightly into the room. "No, Agnes," replied Murdock courteously; "as you see, I am indulging in a period of _dolce far niente_." The young girl laughed a clear, silvery laugh, as her eyes fell upon the pile of newspapers. "If the reading of a dozen newspapers is _dolce far niente_, I should think you would welcome hard work as a pleasant change." "Oh!" replied her father, "the work I have done on those has not amounted to much. I have only been gleaning the news from the morning papers. "Yes," he added, answering her surprised look, "it takes a deal of skim milk to yield a little cream." The last paper which Murdock had been examining lay upon the desk before him. From the closely printed columns stood out in bold relief the glaring headlines: MURDER IN A CAB. MYSTERIOUS ASSASSINATION OF AN UNKNOWN MAN, IN BROAD DAYLIGHT. CABMAN REILLY DENIES ALL KNOWLEDGE OF THE CRIME. Miss Murdock's glance rested carelessly upon these words for an instant. They aroused in her nothing more than the mild curiosity which attaches to events of palpitating human interest, when they have been congealed in the columns of the daily newspaper and served to palates already sated with sensational verbosity.