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 boots, and a silk hat which he had carefully deposited upon the floor, was sitting closeted with Miss Penelope Morse.

It was obvious that that young lady did not altogether appreciate the honor done to her by a visit from so distinguished a person as Inspector Jacks! "I am sorry," he said, "that you should find my visit in the least offensive, Miss Morse.

I have approached you, so far as possible, as an ordinary visitor, and no one connected with your household can have any idea as to my identity or the nature of my business.

I have done this out of consideration to your feelings.

At the same time I have my duty to perform and it must be done." "What I cannot understand," Penelope said coldly, "is why you should bother me about your duty.