to be had; at Charing Cross he bought two. The week’s sensation was dealt with in a double-page article by the editor, diabolically clever. It set out at length the sparse facts of “The Hammerton Mystery” as revealed at the inquest, with obsequious references to “the genius of Stephen Byrne, the poet and prophet of Younger England”; and it contained some scathing comments on “the crass ineptitude of our detective organization.” But it attacked no person, it imputed nothing. The sole concern of the editor was that “months have passed and a hideous crime is yet unpunished. This poor girl went forth from her father and mother, and the young man who had promised to share her life; she went out into the world, innocent and fresh, to help her family in the battle of life with the few poor shillings she could earn by menial services in a strange house. It was not her fault that she was attractive to a certain type of man; but that attraction was no doubt her undoing. She took the fancy of some amorous profligate; she resisted his unknightly attentions; she was done to death. Her body was consigned in circumstances of the foulest indignity to a filthy grave in the river ooze.