Richard Harding Davis used to complain because-when speaking of Stanford White-he found it necessary to ex plain what White was not before telling what he was: the greatest designer, and probably the greatest architect, this country has ever produced. Had White died in bed, with his family and his friends about him, there would have been no word of dispraise. He stood at the head of his profession; he was not yet fifty-three; great things were expected of him. But he allowed himself to be murdered, on a roof garden, by a Pittsburgh ne'er-do-well. Now "murder," as every newsboy knows, is the...