Old Bailey Proceedings Online (www.oldbaileyonline.org, version 8.0, 30 September 2022), March 1887, trial of THOMAS WILLIAM CURRELL (31) (t18870328-485).

THOMAS WILLIAM CURRELL, Killing > murder, 28th March 1887.

485. THOMAS WILLIAM CURRELL (31) was indicted for and charged on the Coroner's Inquisition with the wilful murder of Lydia Green.

MESSRS. POLAND and MATHEWS Prosecuted; MR. GILL Defended.

ANN GREEN . I live at 8, Baches Street, Shoreditch, and am landlady of that house—it is composed of the kitchen, ground floor, and first, second, and third floors—I have lived there between 17 and 18 years—I am the tenant, and let it out to others—in February last my three daughters, Mrs. Gauntlett, Lydia, and Amy, lived with me—I and Amy lived in the basement, and slept together in the first-floor back room, and Alice and Lydia occupied the parlour floor; the back room was their bedroom, and the front room their parlour—those rooms communicated by folding doors, and there is a door from each room into the passage which leads to the front door—the first-floor front room was occupied by two old ladies, Mrs. Fenn and Mrs. Dodd; the second-floor front by Mr. and Mrs. Attrell, the back by Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, and the third floor by Mr. and Mrs. Day—all those lodgers had regular hours of going out—Attrell went out about a quarter to 7, and my daughter Alice about 10 minutes to 7, Lydia about 8, Mrs. Day about a quarter past 8, and Mrs. Sinclair about 9—I am the mother of the deceased girl—she was about 31 years of age, and had been keeping company with the prisoner between 10 and 12 years—he is about the same age, I think—I scarcely know in what employment he was; he was a sponge-clipper the last thing he worked at, but he was only there some few months—I do not know what he was before that; he never knew what he was doing—he never asked me to assist him in any way—my daughter was employed at Mr. Andrews's, at Walthamstow, covering surgical instruments—she had been there 14 or 15 years, and had 18s. a week—out of that she paid me 10s. a week for her board and lodgings—she took her dinner with her, and if I had not got it I gave her the money—that left her 8s. a week for herself—the prisoner had been in the habit of constantly coming to the house, but he has not come quite so much since last August—I believe he knew the lodgers in the house—he did not tell me the reason he did not come so often after August—I did, not know of any difference in the relationship of my daughter Lydia and the prisoner—I know he used to meet her as usual, and come to the door and such like, but I did not see much of it—that would be once or twice a week, or perhaps more—he would come into the house, and would be familiar with the lodgers' habits, and know the hours when they came in and went out—the last time I saw him was on a Sunday towards the end of January—I and my daughter and a Mr. Gilbey and the prisoner were in the parlour together—Gilbey did not wait about a quarter of an hour—I do not think the prisoner and my daughter were on good terms then; they did not talk much—I think she was quite alone in the room when the prisoner came in—I had been to chapel, and I came home and found the three together—she had stopped at home to mind Alice's baby—she

and the prisoner then went out a little while, and he came back to the door with her—that was the last time I saw him—on Friday night, the 4th, just about 11 o'clock, I was in the house, and heard the prisoner talking at the street door with Lydia, but I did not hear anything that was said—they were not married because he would never keep a place to get enough money, and she would not marry him till he got a home—I heard him say good-bye on the Friday night, and then my daughter came in, and came down to the kitchen and had her supper—she was in her usual spirits, but she looked pale and ill, as if she was worried—she had her supper, and then went to bed—in the morning, at a quarter-past 7, she used to knock on the floor with a little curtain-pole which she kept—before that, at a quarter to 7, Alice used to come up and bring me a cap of tea, the last thing before she went out to her work, And I used to remain in bed until I heard the knocking from below—on Saturday morning, 5th February, Alice came up as usual at a quarter to 7, and gave me a cup of tea, and then went away, and I remained in bed with my daughter Amy—about five or ten minutes past 7 I heard a very great noise three times, but I cannot describe what it was; it appeared to be like something very heavy falling down, but I could not tell where it came from—the noises came very quick one after the other—I spoke to Amy, but I did not get up for a minute or two—I then heard some one walk across the passage and bang the street door, and I got up then—I had heard Mrs. Gauntlett go out that morning and close the door after her—I had not heard the door go at all between the time of my hearing those footsteps and the banging of the door—I got up and put my things on hastily; Amy remained in bed—I then went downstairs to the back parlour bedroom: the door was palled close to, but not catched—when I got inside I found my daughter lying on the floor just inside the door, with her head towards a chest of drawers and her feet towards the bed, which is on the right-hand side of the room as you enter—she was fully dressed with the exception of her dress-body and her boots, and her hair was partly plaited—I saw some blood on the floor under her head, and some upon her face, and some under her right hand, which was thrown out under a chair—Mrs. Gauntlett's baby was on the bed crying dreadfully; it is eight months old—a little spirit lamp was burning on the drawers on a little tray; it was not very dark and not very light—the washhand-stand was just beyond the drawers, that appeared to have been used; there was dirty water in it—in front of the window there was a dressing-table with the looking-glass on it; that is where my daughter would be standing if the baby was not crying, and if it was she would go to the bed—this is quite a small room—at that time I only noticed one wound over the left temple—seeing that, I called for assistance, and my daughter Amy and Mrs. Attrell and the other lodgers came, and Dr. Davis was sent for, and he arrived in a short time—up to his arrival Lydia had remained almost in the same position—I showed him the wound—he made some examination of it, and gave me certain advice—he told me she was dead—after that, about 8 o'clock, Mrs. Coleman was sent for, and she came and laid the body out, and she then pointed out to me an injury on the right hand and two injuries upon the right side of the throat, and the right eye was very black as though bruised—she was lying flat on her back when I saw her—this was about 9 o'clock—the doctor was to come back later in the

day upon my sending for him, and about 3 or half-past I sent for him—Attrell came home about 3—he told me something, in consequence of which I sent for the doctor and the police—about 6 or 7 o'clock the doctor came again, and made a more complete examination of the body—the prisoner had left nothing at all at my house belonging to him on the Friday night—there was nothing the matter with me on the Saturday—I was quite well, and I had been so on the Friday night—I did not see the prisoner on the Saturday and tell him to go and get my daughter's wages; I should not have done that if I had seen him—all my tenants have latchkeys—after we discovered this the blinds of the house were pulled down at once, and remained down all day, and they were down at 1.30—I did not see the prisoner on the Saturday, and I did not see the latchkey which the prisoner had.

Cross-examined. Sometimes the prisoner stayed away from the house two or three days at a time—in November, I think it was, he was ill, and my daughter used to go and visit him at his father's house—they had been away together in the country or at the seaside, in August—he sometimes used to stay away on the Sunday—I cannot say whether he had been out with her every night for a fortnight before 5th February, hut I think very likely he did, because he used to meet her coming from work—she had been to his father's house on the previous Sunday—she went to Green Lanes Chapel, but not with him—on the Friday night she should have come in from her work at 8 or a quarter-past, but she did not come in till nearly 11, and she apologised, and said she had been with him at his father's house—I had a son living at Bow—the prisoner was a good bit there during the five days he was ill, and after his death on 7th January—the prisoner was there on and off during his illness, and sat up with him one night, and he helped my daughter to remove the furniture there—Lydia went there with him sometimes—my son died leaving a widow and children, and I was greatly upset by that, he being my only son—I was not laid up; my daughters did not think I was likely to have an illness, and I did not speak of being ill—I was in my business all the time—I can't say whether more people would he in the house at 7 a.m. than at any other time; they would not all be gone out then; the Days would be in the house, and Mrs. Attrell—there is a good lock to the door; it has not been out of order this year or two; you could not open it by pressing against it—it is not left open in the daytime or in the evening—there is a door at the back leading into the yard, and there are workshops at the back—both the husbands and wives have a key; I gave them all one, I believe—I never heard of any other persons having keys that would open the door—I did not know that Currell had one—he had a key when he lived in Chart Street close by which would open our door—his mother lived there 12 months ago last June, and their key would open our door—the prisoner has lived there all his life—I have seen him open the door with that key, not for other persons to go in, but if he or Lydia wanted to come in in the evening when they were out he would let them in—I did not know that he opened the door lately with a key—as far as I remember there was in other person outside the house who had a key—Walter has not got a key that I know of; he is my daughter Amy's young man—Lydia had a key, but she seldom took it with her—I don't know that everybody knew she had a key—I don't remember that she has ever used it—Amy has

not got a key—I never lent my key to anybody—if Amy went out she had to knock at the door; there is a knocker and a bell—I don't know that the prisoner had got furniture at my house for their home when he got married—his father sent a few old things, but it was never mentioned that they were for him—all there was was a very small bed and bedstead and a washhand-stand, a fender, and a little timepiece—the prisoner has done jobs about the house with his tools for me on one or two occasions, not often; he has not done anything during the last 12 months—I remember his buying some blinds, he told me he had bought them at a sale for 1s., that was before Mrs. Gauntlett came to live with me, which was 13 months ago—he put three of them up in my house, in the kitchen, and one in my bedroom, there was then one left—that stood in Alice Gauutlett's room on the ground floor, and was taken away some two or three months ago—it was going to be put up in her room, but she would not have it because it would make it too dark—they were the ordinary canvas blinds on rollers, with a pulley and cord—she told me Currell had taken the blind away—there was a small paper parcel, with a pair of pincers and a hammer and other things in it, on the shelf in the Kitchen for some time, and it was taken away two or three months ago—I will not swear the blind was not taken away on the Wednesday before the Friday, Mrs. Gauntlett knows more about the blind than I do—there was a watch and some jewellery in this room, and Lydia had a little money, but nothing was taken from the room of any kind—the watch was on the chest of drawers—I know my daughter had no other admirer but Currell, she was too particular—she was very modest and reserved, she did not associate with any one—the relations between her and the prisoner were thoroughly respectable—I heard the old ladies go out that morning at 6.30, and heard the street-door bang—I used to get up when I heard my daughter knock, and go down and get her food ready by the time she came down—she used to get out of bed at 7 o'clock and get partly dressed before she knocked to me; I daresay she would take half an hour to dress, because she was rather particular—all the lodgers were in the house on this morning when I came down, except the two old ladies—I know Annie Manton—Lydia had been away from her work before this on Saturdays; on Saturday, 15th January, when her brother was buried, she was away, and also when she was ill—she had arranged on the Saturday to make some clothes for her sister's baby—Annie Manton brought Lydia's wages on those two occasions when she was away, and I saw her hand it to her in the parlour on Sunday evening—I heard that Annie Manton had given Currell the money on the same day, at 12 o'clock at night, she came round and told me—I have seen her and Beatrice Stevens a good many times since, and I have spoken to other people about this matter—I have known a man named Williamson by sight for three or four years—he occupied a shop in Pitfield Street, and we purchased things there; he is not there now, one of his daughters is in the shop—I first spoke to Williamson about this matter last Sunday—I know a Nan named Lambert, I never saw him till last Sunday, I have heard of him—I do not know a man named Thomas—when I came downstairs and the doctor was sent for I thought she had fallen and fractured her skull, but in the morning we thought there had been some foul play, and after we had seen Attrell about 3 or half past, and from some statemen the made, that made us feel certain—Attrell would not be home at 1 o'clock,

sometimes he does not come home till 6 or 6 in the evening—the police were communicated with sometime after Attrell came home—they searched the parlours but not the lodgers' apartments, nor I think the kitchen—they came about 6 o'clock—I was a great deal annoyed about this matter by people coming to see me, amongst them people from the press—it only took me a few minutes to put on my clothes after I heard the noise.

Re-examined. The prisoner was present in the parlour on the Sunday after my son's funeral, when Annie Manton brought Lydia's wages—she handed her the money, which was always in an envelope, and in a joke said, "Co., it," meaning "share it," and Lydia put it in her pocket—I didn't see her open it and count the money—Alice was present—the fender and washstand were brought to my place after the prisoner's father left Great Chart Street; it was a little painted washstand; they were broken, I should not like to give 5s. for them, 10s. was the full value—it was a child's bedstead.

By MR. POLAND. I don't remember whether the prisoner let himself in with the latch key after his father left Great Chart Street—they were away together at the seaside, Aldborough, for 10 days—the back door is bolted when we go to bed at night—the workshops look down into the back yard, there is no way out of our yard—the back door was bolted on the Friday night when I went up to bed, I always bolt it myself.

AMY GREEN . I am single, and live with my mother at 8, Baches Street, Shoreditch—we lived in the kitchen and slept in the first floor back, we have lived there a great many years—my sister Lydia lived there with us, and I have seen her and the prisoner in the house, but from August he did not come till October, and from October to February he sometimes did not come for a week, and then perhaps he would come two or three nights in a week—he knew my mother's lodgers, their habits in coming in and out—I was at home on the night of the 23rd January, when Mr. Gilbey was there; my sister was at home also; the prisoner came in and remained some little time—I was not at home when either he or Mr. Gilbey came, I came in and found them both there, and then the prisoner and my sister went out—I saw him again the next Sunday, he only came to the passage, and my sister was out, she had gone to his mother and father's—he said, "I will go on to her"—I next saw him on Tuesday, 1st February, at our house—he was again there on Wednesday, the 2nd, and remained for a little while, that was the last time I saw him—to my knowledge he left no tools there—on Friday night he did not come in—I slept with my mother as usual on Friday night, and next morning Alice brought us some tea before she went to work—she went at her usual time, Attrell having left before her—I remained on in bed with my mother and heard the door bang after Alice went out, and went to sleep again, and was awoke by a very loud noise, which occurred three times—I got up in bed and asked my mother what it was—she said, "I cant make out"—I said, "I think it is the door banging"—she got up and dressed herself, and I went to sleep again—my mother went downstairs, and her calling awakened me—I got up and went downstairs into my sister's bedroom, and saw my sister lying on the floor—there was blood upon the floor and upon her face—at that time the only wound I saw was one on her left temple—I took her up and supported her head and sent for a doctor—he came, and after that Mrs. Coleman was sent for, and the

body was laid out—she was buried on the following Saturday, and on the Monday Mrs. Gauntlett and I swept out the room, and cleaned it thoroughly; made a thorough examination, but found ho bullet, or revolver, or mark of a bullet on the wall or furniture, but we discovered a white mark on the drawers which had not been there before—it was as if some powder had been there.

Cross-examined. I do not know that my sister had been out nearly every night with Currell for a fortnight before this Friday; she was out a good bit—I believe there is a door leading from the yard into the workshops, but I have never seen it opened—the latch of the hall door has not been out of order for some time; it was put right about a year ago—it is always shut—it is not open continually in the—evening, and my mother has not complained of it—I have never seen Currell Open the door with a key, he has never at any time let me in with a key—Waiter has not got a key that opens the door, I swear that—I am as sure as I can be that my sister Lydia did not have a key—I had one for two months, and then my mother would not let me have it—I have not had one for some time, and when I want to get in I always knock—I don't know whether my mother knew I had a key—Curell would stand talking to my sister at the door and then he would bid her good night—I did not notice whether they were talking for some time at the door on Friday night—Lydia used to get up as a rule about a quarter past 7or a little earlier, and she used to have breakfast about a quarter to 8—mother used to get up when she heard the knocking and go down and get tea ready—I believe Mrs. Gauntlett had a watch and other valuables in her room—I remember the prisoner fixing two blinds in the kitchen and one in a bedroom upstairs one Saturday afternoon, and he was going to fix one in Mrs. Gauntlett's room—I could not say whether it remained in Mrs. Gauntlett's room for a considerable time, and I do not remember his speaking on the Wednesday before the Friday of taking it to his father's place—I never saw any parcel in the kitchen, nor did I see the tools there which he had for fixing these blinds—I aim ail the kitchen every day—I do not know when the blind was taken away, it was two or three months before the Friday—I think Tom said he would take it away, and Mrs. Gauntlett said "Take it, I don't want it"—I did not see the blind—I have seen Annie Manton bring my sister's wages once or twice; I don't remember whether Currell was there—when I saw my sister on this morning I thought she had fainted and fallen against the door—the police were communicated with in the afternoon—my sitter was a perfectly modest well-behaved girl in every way.

Re-examined. I had the key of the door for about two months some time last summer—I gave it back to my mother—Lydia bad no key, she always used to knock—Mrs. Gauntlett had a key.

By the COURT. Mr. Gilbey has not been a frequent visitor for some years, but he has been there four or five times lately; he is a friend of my mother's, and is about the same age as my sister—I have heard of his going there ever since I was a child, but. I have not seen him much—he has been a friend of the family—he frequently came to see my mother and sister when he was a little boy—I don't think he came in December at all, but was there about three times in January and up to February 5—I have seen him there two or three times on Sunday nights—he used to see my sister Lydia if she was at home—he is married.

ALICE GAUNTLETT . I am a widow, and have lived since last summer with my mother, Mrs. Green, at 8, Baches Street, Hoxton, and occupy the parlour and back bedroom on the ground floor—I have known the prisoner nearly all my life, he was in the habit of coming to see my sister Lydia—I saw him last on Wednesday, the 2nd, about 7.30 p.m.; he came into my parlour and the folding doors were open—he asked me if Lydia had come home from work—I said "No"—he said "I will go And meet her"—he went out and they came to the door together about 8.30—they did not come into my room, and I did not hear a word that was said—I went to bed about 10 o'clock, and about 11 she came into my bedroom and I woke up and spoke to her—she was quite well and all right as usual—we both slept in one bed with my little child—on Saturday morning I got up about 6 o'clock and washed and dressed—there is only one basin—I emptied it and finished dressing, and Mrs. Fenn's granddaughter, Sophia Jenkins, a girl about fourteen, who lives there with Mrs. Fenn and Mrs. Dodd, brought me some tea, and I took some up to my mother on the first floor; she was there with my sister Amy—I spoke to my sister Lydia and left her in bed and went out to my work at ten minutes to 7 as near as I can say—I have both a clock and a watch—Mrs. Fenn and Mrs. Dodd had previously gone out—I found the street door had been unbolted, and I went out and shut it after me and went into the City to my work—I am Sure I shut it—there is a latch which answers to the latch key—I simply undid the latch, went out, took hold of the handle, and pulled the door to—I work at the Sun Fire Office, Threadneedle Street—I got there at 7.10—Mrs. Fenn and Mrs. Dodd also work there—they had gone before me and they were there—going out at my door to get to the City, I turn to the right and then to the left up Brunswick Place; that is in an opposite direction from Charles Square—the odd numbers are at one side and the even on the other, and No. 4 is at this corner—I did not see Mrs. Fenn before I went out, or anybody but the child, who came into the room, and my mother and sister—I had not seen anything of Attrell—on my way home at 10 o'clock in the morning I heard what had happened to my sister—I went home—I had done my day's work then—I had a latchkey, but my sister Lydia had not—I went into the parlour and bedroom, but found nothing disturbed or taken away—I had left my watch and my sister's watch and several things there—mine was on the drawers and the other inside a little drawer—I looked about the rooms; no revolver was left there—I assisted in clearing up the room, but I found nothing—the prisoner never had any tools or anything belonging to him in my rooms—there was an old fender and wash-stand and a bed there, but I never understood that they were his—there was also a blind on a roller, standing up endways behind the wash-stand, and about November Lydia said to me in the prisoner's presence" If you are not going to use that green blind,Tom will have it for one of his mother' window; if you are quite sure you will not want it I will give it him now"—I said "Yes, give it to him; I don't like green blinds; they are so dark," and I never saw the blind again—I know the prisoner's writing; these two letters (produced) are his writing, and this other (Found in the prisoner's box) is my sister's writing.

Cross-examined. I had slept with my sister Lydia for some time, and

saw her every night and morning for months—she was not out with Currell every night for a fortnight before February 4th—she was the last week nearly every night, but not so often the week before—she had merely gone on an errand on the Wednesday when he went and met her—I answered the door to him on the Sunday night when he called, when she had gone on before him to his father's house—when she came in on the Friday night, and I was in bed, she told me she had been to the old people at Aden Grove—there are five or six children in the house—this is my latchkey (produced); it is a very common ordinary key—a person desiring to meet me in the morning going to my work could meet me at the corner of Bruswick Place; that is the way I go—I have not seen the door opened by people with keys besides the lodgers—the prisoner had a key belonging to his mother about three years ago which opened it—I do not know when they left Chart Street—I think it was before Christmas that his father went to live at Aden Grove—I cannot say whether it was on January 1st—I believe the blind was to be taken to the house at Aden Grove, but I do not think the conversation was since January—the blind had been, I should say, 12 months in my room—the prisoner did not bring his tools backwards and forwards to the house—I know he had two or three things when he helped me move, but I saw him take them away—he has never done work in the house for my mother; neither covered a chair or anything of the kind—there was a shelf in the kitchen where he kept a small parcel of tools—I saw him take them down from there before last August—that was the the last time I saw them there—my sister had arranged to do some work for me that day—she used to leave to go to her work at 8 o'clock, but I am never there—she used to get to her work at 9 o'clock—I do not know what train she used to catch—Walthamstow is, I think, about seven miles from Hoxton—she went by train—she had no admirer or follower that I know of except Currell.

REBECCA FENN . I am a widow, and have lived 18 years at 8, Baches Street, Hoxton—my sister, Miss Dodd, lives with me and my granddaughter, Sophia Jenkins, who was 13 last birthday—we all three slept that night in the first floor front room; that is the only room I had—I paid 4s. 6d. a week for it unfurnished—on this Saturday morning I got up at my usual time a little after 5, and made some tea about a quarter to 6 as we always do—I go down to the door about 6.10 to take the milk in—I found the door bolted as usual—I unbolted it, and took in some milk from the man at the kerb—he did not get down out of his cart—I shut the door again, but did not rebolt it, and went upstairs—I then sent down some tea to Mrs. Gauntlett by my granddaughter—after breakfast Miss Dodd and I and my granddaughter left the house together, and it was 6.30 when we got to Dawson's clock—it took us about three minutes to get there—when we came out the door was shut in the ordinary way—I always push it to see that it is properly latched—we three then went to the City to our work—later on we knew that Mrs. Gauntlett had come to the office, but we did not see each other, because she works in a different part—I had a latchkey, but Miss Dodd had not, one served the two of us—I had my key that morning—I had not seen Attrell or any of the lodgers upstairs before leaving—I knew the prisoner by name, and have seen him at the house, and have said good evening and good

morning—I knew that he used to visit Lydia, and that they were keeping company.

Cross-examined. I have seen them together very frequently—I pushed the door to see whether it shut, but it had not been out of order of late years—the latchkey is of the commonest possible kind—I have known Currell to put on little latches and things of that kind with his tools, and I remembering him mending the closet-door in the yard 12 months ago I dare say—it was done, and they said that Tom had done it—I do not remember his doing anything since—I do not remember him putting up a hat-rail; I think he did something to a window, and I saw that the blinds were put up—I saw no other person do small carpentering work in the place—there is a high shelf in the back kitchen—I have not seen a small parcel there—I never saw any other follower of Lydia's—about 7 a.m. would be the time when nearly everybody would be in the house except myself—when the children run opposite the door is left open, but we stand on the stairs to see them come back—I do not know that the door is left open a good deal—Mrs. Green has spoken to the children about it, but we have been on the alert—the different lodgers have people come to see them—strangers come into the house—I never had to ask anybody to let me in; we generally come home together, and one opens the door.

WILLIAM SINCLAIR . I sell muffins in the winter, but do not make them—I live with my wife at 8, Baches Street, and have occupied the second floor back room for seven years next April—Mr. and Mrs. Attrell occupy the front room—on this Friday night we went to bed about 11.30 or 12 o'clock, we were not disturbed on the Saturday morning—I got up at 8 o'clock as near as possible; my wife was then in bed in the room, but she was the first to hear what had occurred in the house—I had one latch-key for my wife and myself, and I had it on the night in question.

Cross-examined. I have often seen Currell with Lydia Green—I generally carry my key, but I left it at home this morning—I do not leave it with my wife when I go out to work; she generally knocks to get in, and there is a party over the way, a mangler, who has a key which opens our door, and I carry the key because she can get one over the way—it is the commonest possible kind of key—at this time in the morning I am always in the house, and so is Day—I have not borrowed a key, I have generally got my own—I have never seen Currell let himself in with a key.

Re-examined. I have seen my wife use the key she got from the mangler, Mrs. Percival, because she generally goes over there to spend the evening—she used to return it while I stood at the door.

CAROLINE SINCLAIR . I am the wife of the last witness—we occupy the second-floor back room of this house—we had a latch-key between us, which the landlady gave me—T have never borrowed one; Mrs. Percival, a mangier, has brought me her key at times to open the door, but I have returned it immediately—I knew her key fitted our door because she formerly lived at No. 8 for some time; if I did not like to knock at the door, or keep on knocking, I have got her key, but I have never kept it, I opened the door and ran across with the key—I don't know whether the key opens her door—on the Friday night my husband and I went to bed at our usual time, and on Saturday morning about 7.10 we were disturbed; I was asleep and heard a sound which woke me—I cannot tell

what it was, but the reverberation shook the house, and I heard the land-lady screaming out in an excited manner for her daughter—I got out of bed and dressed myself, and heard what had occurred in the house—my husband remained in bed.

Cross-examined. I woke him up—I heard the sound, but not my husband—he was up and dressed before 8 o'clock, and downstairs—it would not be correct to say that I was not up till 8 o'clock, we were up and down—no one but Mrs. Perceval has let me in with a key; I swear that distinctly—Mrs. Gauntlet has never let me in with her key to my knowledge—I have no recollection of it—I have never borrowed Mr. Day's key, if I have I do not remember it—I never borrowed any key but Mrs. Perceval's to my recollection—I have been there when Currell has stood on the steps with Lydia—I cannot say that they have let me in, because the door was generally a little open, and if I came home and it was not, I borrowed the key and ran across with it immediately or sent it, but I never kept it, because the woman wanted it herself for her own house—she did not tell me so, but I returned it because she had other keys on the ring—I have been there when Amy Green has been there of an evening, but she has not opened the door for me—I ran across with the key or got my husband—I have not noticed Amy with Walter of an evening—I have never borrowed Mrs. Fenn's key; she goes out early in the morning—I have never seen any strange man about the place except Currell or Walter to my knowledge.

JOHN THOMAS DAY . I live with my wife at 8, Batches Street—I am a timber porter—we occupy the top room with out three children, the eldest is 14 to-day—we have lived there nearly nine months—I had one latchkey for myself, and the mistress has got one—on the Friday night I and my wife and children slept in the top floor; we went to bed about 9.30 or 10—I generally get up at 7.30, but on this morning rather earlier—my daughter has occasion to go down with a pail of water about 7 o'clock, and at about 10 minutes or a quarter past 7 I heard a kind of noise as if the children on the first floor were jumping down stairs—there were two or three noises—I got up—my daughter had occasion to go down again to fetch some water, and we heard that something had occurred—my mistress went down first and I afterwards.

Cross-examined. The children below are Mrs. Jenkins's, but they have no proper parents, two old ladies keep them, and one of the children from the next house comes in to fetch a cup of tea, and the children go down and let her in—that does not happen nearly every morning, we are not always awake to hear—my eldest daughter Emma went down at 7 into the yard and unlocked the back door—I went to work at 8, I went down at two or three minutes to 8, but I had been in the yard previously about half-past 7—I have no idea how many keys there are to the house, this is my key (Producing it), it is a very common one—the keys of the house are not the same.

By the COURT. I have had this key two or three months, I bought it at a stall where they sell keys—I knew it would fit the door by the pattern—it is similar to the mistress's key, she bought that I think at the same stall—I gave 2d. for mine—I did not lose my key, I think I only had one, and I bought one so as not to keep on knocking when I went home and disturb the people in the house—I have not lent my key at different times, but I have had occasion to borrow some of the others,

so as to avoid disturbing people—I did not know that the woman over the way had a key of the door—I never borrowed hers, I was always at home in the morning till nearly 8 and in bed—I did not get up till twenty minutes or half-past 7.

By MR. POLAND. I left my room for the first time on this Saturday morning about twenty minutes or half-past 7 as nearly as possible—my daughter Emma had been downstairs three times—I cannot tell what she did downstairs, she usually went down to light the fire, not for the people in the house, but for ourselves—we always get our water from the basement—when I went down I did not see any children there from next door.

MATILDA DAY . I live with my husband and children on the top floor at 8, Baches Street—on this Friday night we went to bed as usual—I had a key of the door and my husband had one—next morning about half-past 7 I was in bed and heard a noise like a bang—I got up directly and my daughter came up and told me that something had happened—I went downstairs about five minutes afterwards—she was in the same room as I was at that time—when I went down I found Mrs. Green's daughter, Lydia, lying on the floor, and I went and fetched Dr. Davis—I saw that she was dead.

Cross-examined. My daughter had not been downstairs at 7, she was down three times after 7—she always went down about 7 or ten minutes past—she went down to the kitchen, anybody who knew the ways of the house would know that—the children in the house would get in and out by knocking—there was nobody in the basement that I know of—I did not know how many keys there were to the house—the children did not go in and out leaving the door open, to my knowledge, but they may—I have never lent my key or borrowed one—I did not know that there was a woman over the way who had one—I have left my key at home—it is a very common kind—I have often seen Currell with Lydia Green coming in at night—I think I have passed them at the door together.

THOMAS ATTRELL . I am a bricklayer, of 8, Baches Street—I live with my wife in the second floor front room; no one else lives with us—we have lived, there about a year and eight months—when I first went to live there Mrs. Green gave me a latch-key, but that was lost in some unaccountable way about the first or second week we were there—my mistress bought two other keys at a stall in Hoxton, and they opened the door—there was also a third key, a metal key, which I got from my brother-in-law—I think that was made of brass and copper—I had the metal key; I always carried it—my wife carried one of the others, and my little nephew, William Henry King, had the third—he does not live with us; he is a doctor's boy—he formerly lived with us, and after he left he kept the key—he is just turned 15—I know the prisoner quite well, but only as Tom, or Thomas—I knew that he was coming to the house and keeping company with Lydia Green—I saw her last on the Friday evening, standing outside Mrs. Green's front door at about half-past 10, and he was with her—they were talking quietly together—I passed in, leaving them there, and wished them good night, and went upstairs to my room to my wife and went to bed—on the Saturday morning I got up about half-past 6, and went out at the front door as near as possible at half-past 7—it was fastened when I came down, and of course I fastened it when I went out—Mrs. Fenn and Miss Dodd go

out before me—it is only a catch-lock; I found it on the latch—I pulled the latch back and went out—the door does not swing back; you pull it to, and it fastens—I remember pulling it after me because it goes rather hard—I left the house as nearly as possible at a quarter to 7—I saw no one in the house before I left—I noticed a light in the front parlour when I got out into the street—I turned to the left as I went out at the door; that was towards Brunswick Place—I went towards Charles Square, and when I was at the corner of Charles Street and Pitfield Street I saw the prisoner there (Referring to the plan)—it takes about two minutes to walk from No. 8 to the spot if you walk quick, and a little farther on is the Crosby Head public-house—the prisoner was merely standing there, at the corner of the pavement, doing nothing—he was not against the wall—he spoke first; he saluted me in the usual way, "Good morning, Mr. Attrell," and I said "Good morning, Tom," or "Thomas," or "Good morning to you"—I did not know that his name was Currell—he said "Which way are you going?"—I said I was going to Clifton Street, and we walked from where he stood to the corner of the Crosby Head, towards the City; that was the way to my workshop, where I was going—he asked me if I was coming in there, and of course I walked in with him—he asked me what I would have to drink—I said "Half a pint of mild ale," and he called for two, one for himself and one for me, which he paid for, and then he called for a pennyworth of gin, and put it in my ale, and made a mixture of it, and said a drop of gin would give me courage if I was going up on a high roof—he then said "Is there any one up and about at hour?"—I asked if he meant Mrs. Green or any of the family—he said "Yes"—I told him the two old ladies who lived in the first floor under me had gone out—he said "Is Alice gone out?" meaning Mrs. Gauntlett—I said "I don't know; there was a light in the parlour when I came out, I noticed that"—he said nothing to that—he said that he had left a few things in Mrs. Green's kitchen, which he wanted to get out, and he did not want to be knocking at the door to be disturbing the family; would I kindly lend him my keys to get the things out, and he said after he had used the key he would return it to Mrs. Green, and she would return it to my wife, so that I could have it after dinner—nothing more was said about the things in the kitchen, only that they were a few things which I understood he wanted for his business—he said they were two or three little things he left there on Friday evening, and he wanted to get them out; he did not say what for—nothing more was said about Alice—I lent him the key, drank up the drink, wished him good morning, and left him—I had never drunk with him before—I was in his company three minutes, or it may be four minutes altogether, and no more—I parted with him at the Crosby Head in the big bar, the largest bar of the house—he went out at the Pitfield Street side, and I at the Old Street side, and I never saw him afterwards till I saw him at Worship Street—it was as near as possible 6 minutes to 7 when I parted with him—I went to my work, and came home about half-past 3, and heard what had happened to Lydia—I went to the station and told the police that I thought there had been foul play, and told them about my key—I have never seen it since—I had never lent it to him before—I think it was made of copper and brass mixed; it looked more of a copper colour—it got very bright in my pocket, and it was more like copper than brass; a sort of dirty brown—I never saw any key of

this lock of that metal—I cannot exactly tell how the prisoner was dressed; it was rather dark at a quarter to 7, but I know it was dark clothes; I do not know whether it was a brown or black coat, and a hat with a band round it—I had not time to stop to take much notice; I had to get away to my shop.

Cross-examined. My wife bought the two keys at the same time, and they both fitted the door, and afterwards my brother, who is a blacksmith, gave me a key, as I wanted a third—I never saw a bolt on the door—there used to be a big lock attached to it, but I think it is out of order—whenever I have come in it has been by turning my own key—I have come in at 12 and 12.30, never any later, and it was very extraordinary to be out as late as that—I always let myself in—I said before the Magistrate that I had seen Currell there ever since I had been in the house, and I had seen Lydia—they were talking happily together on the Friday night—I never heard any angry words between them in my life—I passed close to them on the left as I went in at the door, and I wished them both good night—Currell had never spoken to me about where I worked—he had no means of knowing in what direction my work was that I am aware of—I dare say I have known the neighbourhood of Baches Street 12 years; the same houses have been there all that time, the streets have not been altered—Baches Street is the nearest way that I should go to my work; I might have gone along Brunswick Street into Pitfield Street, there would not be half a dozen yards difference—I work at different places; we are sent to all parts of London; one morning I go one way, and another another, but I have to go to the shop to get the time-sheet at Clifton Street—that leads to Earl Street, Finsbury—I go there every morning when I am at work for Mr. King—all his men have to be there at 6 o'clock in the summer and 7 o'clock in the winter, by the time-sheet—I work regularly for Mr. King when he has got work, when he has not I cannot do it, he does not make work for me, people do not do that, I wish they did—work was bad last winter, and has been for the last two years—I cannot say whether Currell was within a few yards of the Crosby Head when I met him that morning; he was actually in Pitfield Street, he had not turned the corner into Charles Street—I left the house about a quarter to 7—it might have taken me two minutes to walk to where I met him—I might have stood and talked to him two minutes, and then we walked to the public-house, and I dare say I was in there about four minutes and no more—I did not look at the clock in the public-house—he could not have left me at nearly 10 minutes to 7—the first account I gave of this was at the Inquest—I do not remember saying, "I should think it must have been seven or eight minutes to 7 when I left him," but it may have been—I do not carry a watch because I have not got one—I cannot say whether from where I left him he could walk to Baches Street, go into the house, go into the kitchen, come out again, and get back to the spot in 10 minutes—I could walk there in two minutes, and no doubt in three, I mean three minutes from the Crosby Head—if I was at the door in Baches Street I should have to go down-stairs to get to the kitchen—sometimes you could not get the key out of the lock; I know it is a job to get the key into the lock sometimes; I do not know whether there was something wrong with the lock—I dare say I could get from the door to the kitchen in two minutes—sometimes I have a difficulty in opening the door—I never saw Mrs. Green after

I got back on Saturday—Amy was the first person I spoke to when I went to the house on Saturday afternoon, and I did not have any conversation with her—I spoke to my wife when I got upstairs—my work is over about 12 o'clock on Saturday—I could walk from Mr. King's shop to Baches Street in a quarter of an hour if I went straight home—I was there about 1 o'clock—sometimes we do not get our money till 1 o'clock—if I got my money at 1 o'clock I could be home at a quarter-past, if I did not stop anywhere—I might have been home from 12.15 to 1.15—I should not go along Brunswick Place, I should come up Pear Street into Pitfield Street, and turn into a street that leads into Brook Place, or else turn up Charles Street, the way I went in the morning—if I turned up Charles Street I should come into Brunswick Place—when I saw the prisoner that morning his manner was calm, he was all right, I saw nothing wrong about him—the conversation I had with him did not strike me as being at all extraordinary—I did not think it a remarkable thing that he should borrow my key, nor in the smallest degree suspicious—I might have talked this matter over with a few people, I cannot say how many; I never made a constant affair of it—I am quite sure of the words the prisoner used—he did not say, "Is there anybody up round the corner?" not to me—he said, "Is there anybody up and about at home?"—I said, "Do you mean the Green family?" and he said "Yes"—he said, "Is Alice gone?"—I said I did not know—he said, "If Alice is gone I shall have to knock at the street door," or "I do not want to knock at the door"—I do not remember his, saying that he had not got his key with him—I never knew that he had a key of his own; I have seen him go in and out with a key, but I never knew that he had one of his own—I have seen him let himself in with a key with a jug in his hand; I do not know whether there was beer in it, or what it was—it was not upon his saying that he did not want to disturb the people that I mentioned my key, I did not mention it till he asked me for it; I did not take it out and lend him it to him at once, not for half a minute; I hesitated perhaps half a minute—I did not say anything that I am aware of, or question him about what he wanted it for, because he said he wanted to get the things out of the kitchen, that there were two or three little things he wanted which he had left in Mrs. Green's kitchen—I understood that he wanted them for some kind of work, things in his trade, but he did not say what things they were, and I did not ask him—I have never known him by any other name than Tom or Thomas—I have told you fairly everything I remember as being said—I think I know Williamson, a butcher—I think I saw him yesterday—he used to live in Pitfield Street—I did not see him at the police-court—I know a man named Lambert; I have spoken to him, but I never had much to say to him—I spoke to him about this matter when we went to the Treasury; that was the first time I saw him.

Re-examined. I have seen the prisoner once or twice open the door of No. 8 with a latchkey when he has been carrying a jug; that was on a Sunday evening, after tea, between 7 and 8 o'clock—I never knew he had a key except in that way, and how he got it I don't know—in the winter it was usual for the two old ladies to leave before me—I never saw a bolt on the door, and I cannot swear that there is one.

By MR. GILL. I have never mentioned before about his putting gin in my beer to give me courage to go on high places—when he said that

he wanted to go there for some things he left there, I supposed he meant things for his work, because I did not know his occupation; it is only what I suggested that he wanted them for his business.

MRS. ATTRELL. My husband and I went to bed on the Friday night in the second floor front room—no one else was there—I had a latchkey of the front door, and my husband another—I had my key that night, and I have got it now—my nephew, King, had a third key—I was in bed when my husband went out on the Saturday morning—I heard a noise about 7 o'clock or 10 minutes past—it was like something exploding; it shook the whole house—I only heard it once, but it lasted longer than one explosion would have lasted—I got up and went down, and saw Lydia supported by her sister Amy.

Cross-examined. It was not more than 20 minutes past 7 when I came down—Dr. Davis was there—it may have been 20 minutes to 8 before he came—he did not come till after Mrs. Green and Amy were down—the doctor was not there when I came down—during the year and eight months I lived in the house I bought, two keys at a stall in Hoxton—I just guessed at the kind of key I wanted; my guess was right—I bought one first, and then took that with me and bought another for my nephew for twopence, and that opened the door too.

By the JURY. After hearing the report of the pistol I did not hear the front door bang or anyone run along the passage; I am too high up, and my room door was shut.

WILLIAM HENRY KING . I am Mr. Attrell's nephew, and lived with him till I went to Dr. Inman 18 months ago—I had a key of the door, which I took with me when I left, and I used it when I visited my uncle and aunt—I went there with it on Sunday night, 6th February, and then gave it up to my uncle—it had never been out of my possession, but sometimes I did not carry it with me; I left it at the doctor's.

Cross-examined. It is 17 months since I left Baches Street—I had the key all that time, but do not know whether Mrs. Green knew it—I did not often go there—I sometimes used the key on Sunday; I never went there in the week—Mrs. Attrell never asked for my key.

ANN GREEN .(Re-examined). I am sure there was a bolt on my door, and there was a very old lock, which was no good, and it fell off and was not put on again—the latch at that time was just the same as it is now—there were two locks on the door, one at the top and one at the bottom—they were on before I was there—the last person in generally tells me, and I fasten the bolts, and if there is anybody out when I go to bed I leave it for them, and they fasten it—if they were not all in when I went to bed the bolts were left unbolted—whether the last person who came in bolted them I do not know; as far as I know they were bolted, but I cannot say—I was not the first person down in the morning—I usually turned the gas out at 11 o'clock, and went to bed, but very often I stayed up later—most of the witnesses kept good hours, and went early to bed, but occasionally they were late—I went to bed soon after 11 on the Friday night—I do not remember whether anybody was out that night.

By the JURY. I don't think I bolted the door that night; I won't be positive—after I heard the noise in my daughter's room I heard someone go out at the front door, and shut it with a bang—it sounds very different

to the back door, and I am sure it was the street door—I could tell if it was under me.

By the COURT. There are no steps to the front door, but at the back door you go down three or four stairs to the yard, where the workshop is—you cannot get from there into any street; it is something in the paper way—Mr. Corfield used it to get to it through No. 12—going from our house you pass No. 6 and No. 4 to get to No. 12—the even numbers are on one side and the odd on the other—there is one house between ours and Mr. Cornfield's, and that belongs to Mr. Corfield—you cannot get into the shop from our house, nor out of the yard without climbing over the wall—the other houses have similar yards, and by getting over one wall to the other it could be done, but there is no communication from our yard to the shop—there is no gate in our yard.

By MR. GILL. There is a piece of boarding in the yard wall which has been opened once to get an engine through, but that was before I was there—there is no keyhole that I know of, and no lock—it is a wooden door let into the wall—the passage of my house being the widest they had to get the engine through my house and break through the wall, and they filled up the place with wood, and as far as I know it has never been opened since—it may be a door.

MARY PERCEVAL . I am a widow, of 11, Baches Street, and do mangling—No. 8 is nearly opposite me, and I had a latchkey which opened the door—about two years ago I lived at No. 8, and had a latchkey which I took with me when I left—I kept it in my pocket on the same ring with my other keys—I had a second key which I left with Mrs. Green—Mrs. Sinclair sometimes borrowed my keys to get into No. 8, and brought the bunch back—I had the key in my possession on Friday night, February 4th.

Cross-examined. I have never been called as a witness before—the boy King had a key, but he was not living in the house—I have not seen Currell go in and out with a key—I bought my second key at an ironmonger's shop to give my husband one; I gave sixpence for it—I have never let the children in; they used to knock at the door, and it has been open sometimes—I used this key in my own lock; it is the one I bought, but it opens the door where I am now.

EMMA DAY . I live with my uncle and aunt at 8, Baches Street, on the top floor—I remember the Saturday when something happened to Lydia—I got up about 6.30 that morning, and was in the front room boiling some water for early tea, and heard a noise as if someone was jumping downstairs—I had got the water overnight—about 10 minutes afterwards I went downstairs to the back kitchen for some more water for breakfast—I saw no one downstairs—I came up and put it on, and then went down to the yard with a pail of dirty water—I unbolted the hack door, and went into the yard, emptied the slops there, and as I was going upstairs again I met Mrs. Green at the back parlour door, and from what she said I fetched my aunt—I saw no one else.

Cross-examined. I did not know that I was going to give evidence till Mrs. Wright and my sister came to me to-day when I was at work—I had never thought about it till then—Mrs. Wright is Mr. Fenn's daughter—my sister is a little girl—Mrs. Wright said, "Make haste and come to the Old Bailey, a detective has come after you," and when I got into our street I saw the detective—he told me I had better come with him

to the Old Bailey, he did not say what for—I came with him, I don't know his name—my statement was taken in a room, they asked me questions, and I said yes and no—I had not thought about the matter till then—before that Saturday I used to go down at the same time, 7 o'clock, but I have not done so since—I do not remember seeing Currell go in and out of the house with a key—I sometimes used my aunt's key and sometimes my uncle's, and when I could not get them I used to give four knocks, that was for our part of the house—Mrs. Fenn and Aunt Polly used to go down first of a morning to go to work—there is a water-closet in the yard—the children who came in from next door used to knock, and sometimes somebody went out and left the door open accidentally—they did not come in till about 7.30 in the morning, they come to their grandmother and Aunt Polly—I do not know where they went when they came in—Mrs. Fenn Went out between 6.30 and 6.40—I don't know what the children came for, they did not always come—they came after Mrs. Fenn and Aunt Polly left, but Sophia and Lizzie Jenkins, who is a young girl, were at home—Aunt Polly's name is Miss Dodd—if the children knocked at the door anybody in the parlour would let them in—the door was sometimes left open in the evening for the children to go in and out, but not often.

By the JURY. We always leave the back door open and fasten it back with a little catch when we are coming back again—it was kept open in the daytime from early morning—it was not closed by me—I do not play in the yard—I have never seen the little gate in the wall open—the only water-closet is in the yard—I am sure I unbolted the back door after I heard the noise on the Saturday morning—I unbolted the kitchen door when I went down for the water, which is in the back kitchen, and then I unbolted the yard door—there was no smell of powder or of a lucifer being lit.

GEORGE WILLIAMSON . I live at 63, Bevington Street, Hoxton, which is almost in a line with Fanshaw Street—I am a butcher and cattle dealer, and have lived there eight or nine months—I have known the prisoner about four years as Tom—I have seen him at, I think the George and Vulture is the sign of the public-house—I never knew his surname—on Feb. 5th I left my house about 7.5 a.m. and went into the Haberdashers' Arms and had twopenny worth of rum and milk and half an ounce of tobacco—I left at 7.15 and went down Buttesland Street and round the corner into Great Chart Street and straight through Baches Street into Brunswick Place—it was about 7.18 when I went through Baches Street, where I met the prisoner in the middle of the road and wished him good morning—he was 20 or 30 yards from No. 8, which I knew well and all the family—he was between No. 8 and Great Chart Street—just as I turned the corner by the Globe public-house, and before I saw him, I heard a door slam, I cannot say it was No. 8, but it came from that direction—he was buttoning up his coat and he walked very sharply across the road towards Great Chart Street—he did not reply when I spoke to him, and I went on and did not look back to see whether he turned up or down—I went down Baches Street and came out in the City Road, and went to the Meat Market, Smithfield—afterwards, on the same day, I heard of Lydia's death, I knew her by seeing her with her mother—I went to Worship Street Police-court twice but did not see the prisoner's face, I was not there three minutes—he was remanded for a week

and I went again when he was committed—I saw him come in and recognised him as the man I knew as Tom—I went there because some people in a public-house said "You know him well, you have been in his company," and I went to see if I could recognise him; I did so, and after the Court was up I spoke to Inspector Peel—I gave my name but refused my address—I said "You don't want me, I don't want to be brought into a case of this description, my evidence will not be worth anything"—on Friday, March 4th, I was sent for to Hoxton Station; I went there and saw, I think it was Inspector Fearn, and made a statement to him, which he took down—that was after committal—I went to the Solicitor to the Treasury's office and a gentleman took my statement.

Cross-examined. I am a master butcher, I have not got a shop—I first described myself to the police and to the Treasury clerk as a master butcher—I am out of business now, but I am buying cattle; I have bought cattle to-day—my shop was at 10, Cambridge Road, Mile End; I sold it last year, a little time after Christmas; at least I shut it up, I did not sell it—it was sold—I shut it up and gave it to the landlord for rent because it was a failure—I had been there six months I suppose—that was the last shop I had—the shop before that was in the Bethnal Green Road—I left it about August or September—I have no place of business at the Meat Market—I had no shop in February—I don't know what time people usually go to the Meat Market in the Morning—I mean that—I was going to business that morning, to Mr. Prior's in Walworth; I had to catch a train at 1 minute to 8—I was superintending the front of his shop and working there in February—I went over there I suppose five weeks after Christmas—it is 12 months ago since I shut up my last shop, or more than that—when I told you I had shut it up last Christmas time I meant Christmas 12 months—the last shop I had of my own was shut up nearly 12 months ago; it was after Christmas I shut it up—the one I had before that, in the Bethnal Green Road, I sold to Richard Ansell, who has the shop now; it is 300 and something, Bethnal Green Road, Opposite the Red Church—I sold it to him just before I took the shop, about August or September, I suppose, 1885—I had not been out of business for more than a year in January this year—I am not out of business now—I have not had a shop since Christmas 12 months—I have been in Mr. Martin's employment, 51, Alcroft Road, Queen's Crescent, Camden Town—I went into his employment about a month past, last March; I only went to Prior's because his missus was ill—I am in Martin's employment now—before that I was in Prior's—before that I was managing a shop in Green Lanes, Stoke Newington, last summer—I did not leave there particularly suddenly that I know of, we had a few words—I had been there six months—I was a fortnight at Holdworth's, in the City Road; that was about two months ago—I have not been with anybody else—on this morning I was going to Prior's place in the Walworth Road—I had to catch the one minute to 8 train at Snow Hill—I had to get there about 8.30—I cannot say how many mornings I had been there—I was only there because the wife was ill, but I was there several times; I went there for a long time before and after Christmas—I could not tell how many times I went by that train—I could not swear when I went into Prior's employment, I should think in December; I have no dates—I left it after Christmas, some time in February I suppose—I could not tell the date—I think it was in the

middle of February—I went every morning to Prior's place during the time I was in his employment—I had to get there from 8.30 to 9—I went from Snow Hill to Walworth by the one minute to 8 train, I think it was—it would take me all 20 minutes to get from Hoxton to Snow Hill—I used to go past the Meat Market nearly every morning—I used to go to it, for business sometimes; sometimes I had to buy meat for other people—on 5th February I did not buy any meat for anybody; I did no particular business in the Meat Market that morning—I did not buy any that morning—I don't think I did any business—my nearest way is through the Meat Market, and I meant by saying I was on my way to the Meat Market that my nearest way was through the Meat Market—I was on my way to Snow Hill—I have known Currell for three or four years, and I have known him by the name of Tom—I knew the Green family perfectly well—I have seen Currell with Lydia Green of an evening—I did not see them so often together that I supposed they were man and wife; I did not know whether they were or were not—I have made two statements at different times, one to the Treasury and one to the police; they are exactly the same—I could not swear it is true that "I have many times seen the deceased, whom I knew with him, and thought they were man and wife from seeing them together so often;" very likely I might have said that; I have seen them together in the evening—I knew I was giving a statement with regard to a man charged with murder; they asked me the questions, and I answered them, I should speak the truth—I gave my statement truthfully—I should say I remember what I said—I said "I have many times seen the deceased, whom I knew, with him, and thought they were man and wife from seeing them together so often"—I don't remember what time I left my house on the Thursday, nor on the Wednesday morning; it was generally about the same time—I cannot fix the exact time I left on any particular morning—I did not always go at once as soon as I got out of the house to a public-house—I very often went to the Haberdashers' Arms—I am managing Martin's shop now at Queen's Crescent, Kentish Town—I leave home now as a rule about 7 or a quarter past—on this morning I looked at the' clock when I got out of bed; it was five minutes past 7—I don't know if it took me five minutes to dress—I have sworn I left my home at 10 minutes past 7—I saw it was five minutes past 7 when I got out of the bed, and I was out of the house at 10 minutes past 7—I would not swear it was five minutes past—I don't know if the clock was right—I saw the clock in the Haberdashers' Arms; that was a quarter past 7 when I left—I did not look what time it was when I went in—I next looked at Dawson's clock in the City Road; that was 20 minutes past exactly; then I looked at the clock at the Meat Market; that was 25 minutes to 8, I think—I would not pledge my oath as to the time by the Meat Market clock; I will swear it was 25 minutes past 7 by Dawson's clock—I did not think it was important to fix the time I looked at it—I do not notice it every morning—I saw the clock on this particular morning because as soon as I got home I heard of the murder, and I said "It is a strange thing, I went through the street; I met a man, but it would not be him"—I remembered the time that very night, and passing through the street—I did not remember seeing the man, whom I looked upon as practically the husband of the murdered woman—I remember the time because it was 7.15 when I came out of the house, and 20 past

by Dawson's—I remember looking at both those clocks, and passing through the street, and seeing the man in the street whom I thought was the woman's husband, and that his name was Tom—the murder was talked about a good deal—I did not read the papers—I am not a very good scholar—I can read the papers; I cannot understand them—it was a matter of great interest in the neighbourhood; there was a deal of talk about it—I did not know who was suspected of the murder when I heard of it—I heard on the Sunday, I think, that a man named Currell. a sweetheart of Lydia Green, was suspected to be guilty—I remembered I had seen the sweetheart; he had been at my place—as soon as I heard he was a sweetheart of Lydia Green's I remembered that I had seen him in the street, but I did not know but what he was the husband—I did not know but what they were married—I did not know whether they were married or not—I did not think they were two different men, a husband and a sweetheart—I knew the man I saw in the street was the man who was either her husband or her sweetheart, and that his name was Tom—I did not know he was the sweetheart who was suspected—I knew the man's name was Tom, and I knew the suspected man's name was Tom after I saw it in print on the Monday night—I thought he was the suspected man—I cannot say I knew he was the sweetheart—I heard them on the Sunday or Monday talking about the woman's sweetheart being suspected, and that his name was Tom—I did not remember I had seen the sweetheart and the man whose name was Tom in the street that morning—I bade him good morning—I took no notice of him—on the Monday I knew, from what I had heard and from what I had seen in the papers, that the man suspected was a sweetheart of the woman, and that his name was Tom—I could not tell whether the man I had seen in the street was her sweetheart or not—I had seen her with him—I swear I did not know whether the man was her sweetheart or not—I did not know at all who was suspected—I had no idea whether there were two men named Tom suspected of this; I did not know who they were—I did not hear of the Inquest; I heard nothing of that—I heard of the time the murder was supposed to have taken place—I did not hear what evidence was given at the Inquest till I saw it in the paper—I heard a verdict of wilful murder was given against the woman's sweetheart—it never occurred to me that the man I saw was the man against whom the verdict was found—I attached no importance to what had happened so far as I was concerned—I never went to see Mrs. Green about it; I had never been to see her—I met Currell in the Essex Road a week after the Inquest—I knew he was the man Tom who was the woman's sweetheart or husband, but I never thought anything about the murder then—I thought nothing of him then as the man who was wanted—I did not know who the man was who was wanted according to the likeness—I saw the likeness—I did not know that the man wanted was the sweetheart of Lydia Green; I did not know whether he was the sweetheart or husband—I did not know that I knew the man at all who was wanted—I could not say whether he was either sweetheart or husband—I saw she was a single girl by the papers—after the Inquest I did not know who was the man suspected in the papers—I never knew the suspected man's name was Tom, nor that he was the sweetheart of the girl—I read some of the evidence; I did not read much about it, although I knew the family well—I did not talk about it, and took no interest in it—to

the end of February I had not the slightest idea that the man I supposed to be the husband was suspected—I heard of the prisoner being arrested, and of his writing a letter—I heard the circumstances under which he gave himself up, I attached no importance to it—when I spoke to the police I did not attach the slightest importance to my evidence—when I went to the police-court on 28th February I was not employed anywhere—I got off a cart in which I had a load of meat, and went in to see the man—I did not hear Attrell give his evidence there, I heard the doctor—the first time I went I did not stop, I was there a few minutes, I suppose, not 10—I would not swear I was there 10 minutes—I went in because the people told me I knew him—I went to hear the trial—I did not go in while Attrell was giving his evidence—I never said, "On Wednesday, 23rd February, I went unknown to the police-court"—I gave a statement of the evidence I was prepared to give to that gentleman (Mr. Sims, of the Solicitor's Department, Treasury) at Whitehall afterwards—I did not tell him I went unknown to the police—I did go unknown—perhaps I told him that, I don't know—I went in to see the man in custody for the murder, I went in to hear the trial; when he came up you could have knocked me down with a feather—it is quite right that, "on 23rd February I went unknown to the police-court to see the man who was in custody for the murder, I had no idea that I should find he was the man I had seen on the 15th"—I had not the slightest idea—I did not know what the name of the man who was charged was; I did not know he was the sweetheart—when I went to the police-court I did not know whether the man charged was sweetheart or husband—seeing him with her I thought perhaps Currell was the sweetheart, after reading the papers—I did not know certainly that Tom Currell was the sweetheart of Lydia Green when I went to the police-court, I heard it—I tried to see the man—I did not see him the first time I went to the police-court—I saw his back—I could not tell for how long—I did not hear Attrell give his evidence, nor did I see him in the witness-box—I only saw the doctor in the witness-box to the best of my recollection; I am not positive about it, I was in there a few minutes and came out again—I was riding home with a load eve meat—I should not think the gentleman who took my statement invented this, "I stood at the back of the Court. I could not see the prisoner's face; I was only there about 10 minutes. I heard Attrell, whom I know, giving evidence as to giving the prisoner in the dock the key of 8, Baches Street"—I saw him as he was coming out of the Court, but I did not hear him give his evidence the first time I went; I heard him the second time—I heard him speak once or twice in the box the second time—when I went to the police-court, on 23rd February, and stayed there about 10 minutes, I believe Attrell was in the witness-box, now I come to recollect it, I am not quite positive about it—I did not hear the time mentioned when he said he had given the key, I heard the fact that he gave the key—I saw some of in the paper—I don't think I heard him say he had given this man the key—I could not swear whether I did—I knew Attrell—very likely I might have given that statement to the Solicitor to the Treasury—I was crashed behind the crowd at the Court—I heard Attrell say one or two things—I could not say about whether I heard him speak about the key—I did not hear Attrell say the time when he gave the key to the prisoner—I heard him say something, I was behind the crowd, I could not catch the words—I was there 10 minutes—I

could not swear I heard him say during that time that he had given the man the key—I had no interest in it—I saw the man's back and did not recognise him; I had known him on and off for four years—people told me I knew him, and I went on 2nd March to see if I could recognise him, and I did recognise him as Tom, I did not know he was Currell; I did not know he was the man mentioned—I was greatly surprised to recognise him when I saw him—I could not swear now whether he was sweetheart or husband—I did not go to the police after having seen him—I had no idea of giving evidence after I saw him, and no intention of going to the police—I had no idea that my evidence was of any importance—I went and spoke to an inspector in the street at once—I said, "If he was the man who was wanted, I could have put my hand upon him the other day"—I believe the inspector said, "You are the very man we want"—I never saw Lydia Green in the company of any other man than the prisoner, I had not the smallest ground for thinking she had any other sweetheart—I heard the evidence given the second time at the police-court, and I read some of the evidence—I never heard about the door banging in Baches Street in the evidence—I said to some one in a public-house on the Sunday, "Strange thing, I was coming down the street and I heard a door bang"—I did not know the man I saw in the street was a sweetheart or husband or what, I knew his name was Tom—I did not know what his relationship to Lydia Green was—when I heard the door bang I was about 10 yards from the Globe public-house, as soon as I got round the corner; I was walking a bit sharp—I was 10 yards round the corner—I was on the same side as No. 8, on the path, when I heard the door bang—I cannot swear whether it was the door of No. 8—that was all the noise I heard in the street—I did not leave my house yesterday morning—I last did work on Saturday—I left my house last Saturday about 7.30—I went into the York public-house, where I looked at the clock—afterwards I went to Haverstock Hill—I saw the clock at St. Pancras Station and looked at it, it was a quarter to 8, I believe—I heard no doors bang then except those of the train—I heard no doors bang to my knowledge as I walked through the streets—I did not hear the door bang just as I turned the corner, I was round the corner then—I could not tell to a yard—the man I saw in the street was dressed in dark clothes—I was not examined as a witness before the Magistrate—this is the first time I have been examined—the inspector spoke to me in the street he did not take down my statement in writing; I afterwards went to the station, where it was taken down—after I had been to the police-court and heard Attrell I did not talk the matter over with other people—I talked it over with one or two people after I had recognised the prisoner, not in a public house.

Re-examined. After the Saturday I knew a man named Currell was suspected—I only knew the prisoner as Tom; I did not know his name—I had seen a portrait circulated about the place—I did not recognise that as Tom—I first saw it close to the Elephant and Castle in a newspaper shop about a week after the Saturday I should think—I saw Currell in the Essex Road, Islington, a week after, but did not know he was the person suspected—on the first occasion I went to the police-court I left my load of meat outside; people had told me I knew him—I could not see his face on that occasion—the second time, on 2nd March, I went because people kept telling me I knew him—I saw his face and

recognised him as soon as he came out into the Court, I knew him directly—when the Court broke up on that occasion I saw Inspector Peel and told him I recognised him—I said "I didn't know this was the man you wanted, or I could have had him long since, I met him that Very morning of the murder"—he said "You are, the very man we want"—I said "You don't want to bring me into it; I don't want to be in a case of that sort"—I did not know Inspector Peel before—I gave him my name but not my address—I told him he could find me any time he wanted me in Pitfield Street, Hoxton—I did not give him the street I was living in—I was living in Bevington Street—two police inspectors came to my place and left word for me to go to the station on the Friday following—I went and made a statement to Pearn—I was sent down to the Treasury solicitor to make a full statement to him a week or a fort-night afterwards.

By the COURT. The Haberdashers' Arms that I went to is just at the top of Bevington Street, in Pitfield Street, about 150 yards from the house in Baches Street—Pitfield Street is close to the church—the Haberdashers' Arms is at the corner of Pimlico Walk, exactly opposite Singleton Street, you can stand on my doorstep and see Mr. Berry's house—from there I went down Pitfield Street and Buttersley Street, then into Great Chart Street, and so got into Baches Street—it is only about 100 yards.

By MR. GILL. The man I knew as Tom had a clean shaved face.

HENRY BARKER . I am a carman, of 6, Midturn Street, Hoxton—I have known the prisoner quite 12 years by sight—I have seen him to say good evening and good morning to before—I knew him as Tom—I knew Lydia Green, and I knew they kept company together—on Saturday, 5th February, I was shutting up the warehouse at the corner of Baches Street, five houses from No. 8, at a quarter-past I—I had heard at 11 o'clock that Lydia had died from a fit—I saw the prisoner in Brunswick Place, at the corner of Baches Street, by a baker's shop, at a quarter past I—he was standing and smoking and looking towards the house No. 8—I said to him "It is a serious thing round the corner for you"—he said "Yes, it is," and then he turned and walked away towards Pitfleld Street—I walked towards the City Road—that is all that passed between us.

Cross-examined. I had on several previous occasions said good morning and good evening to the prisoner; that was the extent of our acquaintance—I can't say when I had seen him before, though I think it was more recently than a month—I cannot give you any date when I had seen him within a month of 5th February—I have seen him on several occasions—I had not heard of the death of Mrs. Green's son suddenly—I knew nothing about that when I spoke to the prisoner—I have given you the exact words I used; I shall never forget them; there were so few of them: I should think what had occurred was a sad thing, a young lady whom you had been courting for many years dying so suddenly—I am sure the words I used were not "Sad news over the way"—I have not talked this matter over with a great many people—I have spoken about it to about three at the outside—I came across the road to speak to him—we were half way through putting the shutters up; we have to stop until our clerk's business is over—one of my mates did not call me away after I made the remark to the prisoner—one of

my mates was not waiting for me; he was coming towards where I was standing—we spoke together, and I went to have half a pint where he had come from—I only said "All right," and passed him; I did not go towards the public-house with him—I passed my mate and went to the King's Arms by myself; that was after I spoke to Currell—I was a sufficient time with Currell to speak to him, and then he left me—as soon as Currell turned round I left him—the public-house I went to was towards the City Road—I believe this was the first time I had said anything more than good morning or good evening to him—he was standing with his face partly towards the baker's shop and partly looking down the street, smoking—the baker's shop is at the corner of Baches Street and Brunswick Place—he was actually in Brunswick Place, at the corner of Baches Street—I had seen him there about a minute before I spoke to him—I turned round and caught sight of him directly—I think I was about 10 minutes in the street—it was when we had got the shutters nearly up I saw him.

ANNIE MANTON . I live at 10, New Street, Drysdale Street, Hoxton, and work at Mr. Andrews's, a surgical instrument maker, at Waltham-stow—up to February 4th Lydia Green worked there with me—I last saw her alive on the evening of that day at five minutes to 7 in Mr. Andrews's workroom—from time to time I went to visit her at 8, Baches Street—I last went there on Sunday, 16th January, the Sunday after the brother's funeral, which was on Saturday, the 15th—I saw Lydia Green and the prisoner together in the same room—he was lying on the couch—the deceased had not been at her work on the Saturday, and I had received her wages from Mr. Andrews, and I brought them to her on this Sunday—I gave her the money, and somebody in jest said "Co it"—I can remember nothing else that was said—I stayed about half an hour—the prisoner was there all the time—I left them—I had taken her her wages in that way three or four times before, it may have been—I have known the prisoner by sight ever since I knew Miss Green, about 6 years—I was in the habit of coming home with her from work until lately—she sprained her foot some time before, and that prevented her doing the walk between the two stations—she did not walk home on the Friday, she caught an earlier train—Beatrice Stevens was her companion and mine—we all three have come home together, but more often I and Miss Green—when we came home together in that way we came from St. James's Street to Hackney Downs by train, and then walked from Hackney Downs to Dalston, and rode from Dalston to Shoreditch, and walked from Shoreditch home, to either her home or mine—while on our walk between Hackney Downs and Dalston we have met the prisoner several times—on 6th February the deceased did not come to her work, and Mr. Andrews gave me her wages in an envelope to give to her—I came home on that day with Beatrice Stevens—we came by train from St. James's Street to Hackney Downs, and then, as we were walking to Dalston, a little after 3 o'clock, I met the prisoner—he was at the corner of a street in the Dalston Lane reading a bill on a board—I said "Tom"—he turned and asked me how I was—I made no reply, but said "Have you seen Miss Green?"—he said "Yes"—said" Is not she well?"—he said "Oh, yes, her mother is queer," or "ill"—I asked him if she was not able to get up—he answered something, I forget what it was—I do not think I spoke next—he said "I promised to take Lydia to the Hall to-night,

but I don't suppose she will go now as her mother is ill"—he meant the Agricultural Hall—I said I was sorry her mother was ill—he said "I told Lyd I was coming this way, and she asked me to meet you for her money"—I gave him the money as it had been given to me in the closed envelope—I believe he put it in his pocket—Beatrice Stevens was standing just a little way from me, not far, and he said "Is that Beatie?"—I said "Yes, come along,Beatie"—she came up then—she was not very close to me while this conversation was going on, only just behind me; I do not think she was close enough to hear what was said, she might have heard some of it—we all three walked down Dalston Lane together towards Dalston Junction—there is a public-house near the railway-station; before we got to it the prisoner asked me if I would have a drink at another public-house, and as we walked along he asked me if I would have a flower—the second time he asked Beatie and me to have a drink at the public-house by the station we went in, and he called for a glass of ale each and paid—I did not see where he took the money from, nor how much he paid—I did not see the envelope again after I gave it to him, nor did I see him touch it in any way—I said "Miss Green wasn't at Bow last night"—he said "No, she was at my place till late"—nothing more occurred in the public-house except that he joked with both of us—he seemed in good spirits; I thought he had had a glass too much to drink—I think he had a glass of beer in the public-house, I cannot remember—he asked us to have some more drink; we declined, and he did not have any more—we left the public-house after having been there about 10 minutes—we went out into the Lane again, and went to Dalston Junction Station—he went with us; he took the tickets for me and Beatrice Stevens, and paid for them; they were 1d. tickets; we did not repay him; he gave us the tickets—he said "Look out for Lyd Monday morning"—I said "From Bishopsgate?" and he said "Yes, the same as usual"—he said good-bye to us—we went down to the train, and went on—he did not go down the staircase with us—I last saw him there at that time in the station—it was just after 3 o'clock when we met him, and I should say it was about a quarter past 3, or a little more, when he left us, from a quarter to 20 minutes past 3—I heard nothing of the deceased that night, but next morning, Sunday, I first heard of her death.

Cross-examined. I did not go to Mrs. Green's house that night, but on Sunday morning—I did not then talk it over with Mrs. Green and the family very much, they were so upset—I have frequently been there since this matter; certainly we have talked about it, not very much—I and the girls at where I work have talked about it—I have not talked about it to other people, they have spoken to me about it—nobody has found fault with me for giving the money to Currell nor asked why I gave it—I had been in this public-house before with Currell and Miss Green—when I brought the wages home to her once when he was there, I said something to her, I forget what I said—that was just before I was coming away, I stayed there about five minutes after I gave her the money—I gave her the envelope, I don't know what she did with it—some one said "Co it," and something more was said about it, I forget what it was—I can't remember who spoke—I think Currell was at the son's funeral, I don't know—this was on Sunday evening and the funeral had been on Saturday—I was asked at the Inquest about handing her the

wages—for some time I had frequently seen Currell and Lydia Green together, I had often known him meet her in Dalston Lane—that was the place he used to meet her, but lately she had been to Bishopsgate—she had begun to go the other way—he told me she had met him in Dalston Lane on the day before—some parts of Dalston Lane are lonely, there are plenty of shops there—there are houses all the way along it—I thought the trouble they had had might have affected Lydia or her mother—I thought that before the Saturday—I did not expect the mother to be ill more so than the others—I thought the trouble might have affected the mother's health or Miss Green's or the son's—when Lydia did not come in the morning I thought she was ill—when we saw Currell that day, the first thing said to me was not "Where is Lyd?"—I used more often than not to speak of her as Miss Green—sometimes I used to call her Lyd or Lyddie—he did not say "Where is Lyddie"—I did not say "She has not been at work to-day, I suppose she is ill," nor words like it—I said "Have you seen Miss Green?"—when I asked him if she was well, he said "Yes, she is all right"—he did not say "She was at our place till late last night" till I spoke to him about her being at Bow—it was not at the time he said she was all right that he said he had been with her late last night, it was in the public-house that he said he had been with her the night before—he did not say "She is all right, I suppose her mother is ill," but that her mother was ill and so she had stayed at home on that account—I said I had expected some of them to be ill for some time, not Lydia or the mother more than the others—I said "I am sorry her mother is ill, I have been expecting it for some time," I had expected one or the other to be ill—he said soon after he asked me for the money," I promised to take her to the Hall to-night, but now her mother is ill I don't suppose she will go"—in the public-house he said she had been with him till late last night—I had intended to take the wages round, thinking she was ill—I am quite sure I did not say that I had got the wages and that I was going to take them round—I was going nowhere particularly that night but going home, I seldom go out on Saturday night—we passed some flower-woman just by the station—he paid for a glass of ale and a penny ticket—when I had been in the public-house before with him and Lydia he has paid then—Lydia and I were great Mends—during the time I knew her I never knew her meet any other man.

BEATRICE STEVENS . I work at Mr. Andrews's, surgical instrument maker, Walthamstow—Annie Manton and the deceased worked with me—I saw her on Friday, 4th February, and went to work with her on that day—we went from Shoreditch to Dalston Junction, then walked down Dalston Lane to Hackney Downs, and she took a return ticket which would take her to Walthamstow and bring her back in the evening—she returned alone that evening, I did not come with her—that was the last time I saw her—I was present on the Saturday when Mr. Andrews gave an envelope to Annie Manton—I returned with her on that afternoon—we came from James Street to Hackney Downs, then as we were walking along we met the prisoner—Annie Manton asked him the reason Miss Green had not been at work on the Saturday morning, he said her mother had been very ill on the Saturday morning and that was the reason she had not been on the Saturday, and that he had see her on the Saturday morning, and he said he was coming that way and she asked him whether he would meet

Annie and fetch her money—we walked along till we, came to Dalston Junction—before we got there Miss Manton gave him, an envelope similar to that which Mr. Andrews had given her, I should say the same one—after she had given him that we three walked along—he said one or two things, I never heard anything more, he whispered one or two things to her—when we came to the door of the public-house, just before the station, he asked us if we would have a drink—we went and had a drink with him—he paid for it—we remained there about ten minutes, he asked her if she remembered the last time she was in there with Lydia Green and him—she answered, but I cannot say whether it was the day he came home or went away in the country, she said that was the last time they had been there together—we all three left the public-house and went to the station, when he took two tickets to Shoreditch and paid for them—we went down to take the train and he went away—going from the public-house to the station he said "Look out for Lyddie on Monday morning"—Annie said "Which way'?"—he said "The old way from Bishopsgate"—it was about ten minutes or a quarter past 3 when he left—we had met him at about ten or five minutes to 3—we were with him 15 or 20 minutes.

Cross-examined. When we met him I was about two or three yards from him and Annie Manton—I was right up at the side of them—I left her a little way, not far—she and Currell were just together, I was just behind them—she walked a little way on in front with Currell, a very little way—she said "Come along, Beattie," because I generally walk a little way behind—I was very little behind her—Currell was talking to her when I was behind; I did not hear their conversation then—the first I heard was when she called me along—he turned round and said "Is that Beattie?" and Annie Manton said "Come along, Beattie"—they were going along saying that—I did not hear him say "Is that Beattie?" because he knew me before—I heard Annie say "Come along, Beattie"—that was about three or four minutes after we met him—at the first onset I walked on in front, and they came on behind—when we met him she stopped and talked to him and I walked on a little way—I heard her ask why she had not been in the morning; when she asked that I kept behind her a little time—when we met first I walked on a little way, so as not to overhear, and I did not hear the commencement of the conversation—she was asking how Lydia was as she came along; that was after they had stopped and I had stopped—I did not know if Mrs. Green was ill, I thought she was when he told us so—I thought Lydia had broken her ankle again that day, as her ankle was bad—I heard Annie ask him how Miss Green was; he said she was very well—I did not hear him say she had been at his father's house the night before, or that he supposed her mother was ill—he said her mother was very ill—Annie said to me she was going round in the afternoon, but as he had met her and had taken the money to her she would not go till the Sunday—I have talked this over a great many times—one or two other things were talked about in the public-house and station—I said before the Magistrate "I am sure there was no conversation at the public-house or railway-station except about the last time they were in there"—I was sure of it—there was nothing more, only one or two words not concerning her—we had often met the prisoner in Dalston Lane—if Lydia had come that way that morning, the spot where we met him would have been the place for him to meet her—she had gone that way the day before,

because I met her on Shoreditch Station and went with her to work—I was not there the day before, Thursday, when he met her—if she had been at work on Saturday, the place where we met him would have been the place where he would have met her.

By the JURY. Currell was in about the same condition that I have seen him in before, rather flushed and fidgety I think.

ABRAHAM SURREY ANDREWS . I live at Clay Street, Walthamstow, and am a surgical instrument maker—Lydia Green worked for me for about 14 years—she was at work up to and on Friday, 4th February, and did her work as usual that day, and left about 7 p.m. as usual—I expected her next day, she did not come—I put her wages, a half-sovereign and 8s., into an envelope, on which I wrote her name, and handed it to Annie Manton to give to Lydia—I had acted in a similar way on other occasions when she did not come on Saturday.

ELIZABETH HEARN . I live at 32, New End Square, Hampstead—the prisoner is my nephew—on Saturday evening, 5th February, about 7 o'clock, he came to me; I think it was about six months since I had seen him—I knew the deceased, and had seen her in his company—she last came to see me in the summer of 1886—when he came on the 5th he said he had a little spare time and thought he would come up and see me—he said nothing more as to the object of his visit—I said "How is your father and mother, and how is Lydia?"—he said "All right, I saw her last evening, and she will come up to see you shortly"—I said "I thought of writing to her for your address, as I didn't know where you were"—he then wrote down the address for me, "R. Cresswell and Co., Sponge Importers, 32, Red Lion Square, Holborn, W.C."—I kept it—we talked about business matters and other things generally, as to what I was doing in the way of work; nothing more in relation to Lydia Green, or about the address—nothing more was said about my writing to him there—I thought he looked a little heavy-eyed, as if he had had a little something to drink—he left about 8 o'clock—he said nothing about going to Flask Street to lodge, or as to where he was going—I did not know he was going there—he said nothing about leaving his boxes with me, or anything about his boxes.

Cross-examined. I might not have heard all he said to me—when I asked him how his father and mother and Lydia were, he said his mother was not very well and he thought his father broke a good deal—he said he had been at his father's place with Lydia the night before, and that she was all right—I live within a minute or two of Flask Walk—I know Mrs. Smith, she lives a little more than two minutes' walk from me—I knew Lydia's address—I wanted to know where he was working, in case anything happened to his father and mother, as I had nowhere to send.

Friday, April 1st

MARTHA SMITH . My husband is a carpenter, of 22, Flask Street, Hampstead—on Saturday, 5th February, we had a notice in the window, "Lodgings for single men," and about 7.30 p.m. the prisoner came and asked for lodgings—he said that he preferred a room to himself, but as my children had gone to bed in the room which I let, he engaged a bed in a double-bedded room at 3s. a week—he gave me the name of Cole, and said that he should be very pleased to refer to his aunt, Mrs. Hearn, of 32, New End, who had sent him to me—I did not know Mrs. Hearn, but my husband did; she is a dressmaker, two or three minutes' walk off—he said that he preferred a room to himself, because he heard that he was in the habit of groaning at night, and he thought if he had a room to himself he could groan as he liked without disturbing anyone—I told him he could have a room to himself later on—he brought no luggage—he said that his boxes would follow—he shared the room of a lodger of mine named Mortimer—he removed there that night, and sent my little boy for the special Evening Standard, which was fetched and given to him—he said he thought we should have war with Germany before the month was over—he went out on the Sunday between 10 and 11 and brought in a Sunday newspaper—he was only out a few minutes to get the paper and to get shaved—he went out on the Monday, and said he was going to Oetzmann's in Hampstead Road to make final arrangements—he had told me on the Saturday night that he had an engagement there, and was going to start on Wednesday morning on a stamped agreement—I asked him where he had been at work before, but he did not make any answer—he said that he always went on those terms, three years agreements—he was out till the evening, and when he returned after 7 o'clock there was a letter for him which had come by post; it was addressed "Mr. T. Cole"—he read it aloud, and then put it on the end of our mantelpiece—the purport of it was that he was to have his tools on Wednesday morning at 8.30 to commence work—he said that he had been at Oetzmann's that day, and he was rather surprised at the letter coming, as he thought all arrangements had been made—when he came in on Monday he asked whether his boxes had arrived—I said "No"—he said "I dare say they will be here the first thing on Tuesday morning, and that they were coming by Carter, Paterson, and Co."—he went out on the Tuesday about 12 o'clock, and at 7 o'clock, when I went out to a musical entertainment, he had not returned, but he was there when I got back—he had agreed to go there with us, but my husband said in his presence "The young man has been at work; he took his tools to Oetzmann's, and stopped and did a little job"—he had a ticket for the entertainment, and also one for his aunt—he seemed very unwell that night, and next morning, Wednesday, it was between 11 and 12 o'clock when he got up.—he was very sick, and drank large quantities of water as if he was burnt up with fever—he told me he had had roast pork for his dinner, and he expected that was the thing that disagreed with him—he said that he did not feel equal to work, and he must send them a letter to tell them he was not well—he wrote a letter, but I did not see him address it—he took it to the post himself soon after 12; he was not out many minutes; he brought back a Daily Chronicle with him, and after reading it by the fire he went upstairs to his room between 2 and 3 o'clock, and I saw no more of him that day—I saw him next about 10 o'clock next morning, Thursday—he said he felt better, and thought he would go to Oetzmann's and see it he was equal to work, but at all events he must show up there that morning—as he went out between 11 and 12 he said that he should be out for an hour, and would then get my husband to help him round with his boxes from Mrs. Hearn's—he never returned—I sat up till 10, and my husband later—next day, Friday, I went up into the room which he had occupied jointly with Mortimer, and missed a coat of Mortimer's from a recess behind the door—my husband went to Mrs. Hearn's—on Friday afternoon this letter came (Addressed "Mr. Cole, 22, Flask Wharf, Hampstead, N.W.," on an envelope stamped "James Shoolbred and Co., Tottenham Court Road"): "Friday, February 11th, 1887. If Mr. Mortimer will take the enclosed ticket to 32, Flask Wharf, Hampstead, he will get the money to redeem the coat, with interest." (The ticket was for a coat pawned on 10th February, 1887, for 5s. in the name of John Morton, 9, John Street.) I did not open the letter; I gave it to my husband, who took it to the police-station—the prisoner had the whole time he was with us a morning band on the left arm of his under coat, which did not go all round, only from seam to seam on the outside part of his arm, and a mourning band on his hat—no boxes or bags ever came—he told me that his parents lived in the City Road; he did not say what they were, nor did he say what trade he was—I asked him if he was behind a counter—he said "Anything, I throw myself about."

Cross-examined. He mentioned his tools—I am quite sure he gave the name of Cole, not Currell, because he said it was not Coal but Cole—I said "Do you wish to stay to-night?"—he said "I am not very particular, bat I do not wish to go all the way back to-night?"—he did not say where—I said "The bed is not aired; it is a week since it has been slept in, but I will bring it down to the kitchen fire and air it if you wish to stay to-night," and I did so—he mentioned Hoxton two or three times, and said that he had a sister living there—he did not say that he came from Hoxton, but he mentioned on Saturday night several places and chapels at Hoxton which I knew, and I spoke of my brother-in-law living there—he did not say a word about an advertisement of Oetzmann's, but he said that it was a settled thing; he had a three years' stamped agreement with Oetzmann's—he did not say he had been there before—he did not mention Shoolbred's to me—if I have said "He told me he was going to Oetzmann's on the following Wednesday, he had just completed a three years' agreement, and was going on again on the same terms," that was a mistake—I do not think I said so—I never heard a conversation about Oetzmann's letting furniture on the three years' system—I mentioned a furniture warehouse or two, and said "Was it there you were employed?" but he always turned it off—Shoolbred's was spoken of on the Monday morning—no advertisement for men was spoken of—besides Hoxton he spoke of Walthamstow, Petticoat Lane, Hampstead, where his aunt lived, and other places, and I did not understand where he came from—when he spoke of Hoxton, and I spoke of my brother-in-law living there, that was in case he knew my relations—my brother-in-law is employed at De La Rue's—when the prisoner was talking about Oetzmann's I said that my husband's brother was intimately acquainted with a carpet planner—I do not know whether he lived at Hoxton—my husband's brother lives at Kentish Town—the prisoner was dressed the same all the time he was there, and had the crape on his arm—I cannot say whether he was clean-shaved when I saw him on the Saturday—the only difference I saw was that one time he wore a collar close round his neck, and another time a turned-down one; that did not disguise him in any way—he seemed excited on the Saturday night, and we thought he had had too much to drink—he had some beer at our place and a little whisky later on, and my husband and I and one of the lodgers had some too—he went out in the daytime, and generally came back in the evening when it was dark, like any other lodger—he had a paper on Saturday night, and the Sunday paper—he asked us on Saturday night

if we would be sure and take a paper for him on Sunday morning when the boy brought one for the people upstairs—I think he said that he always had a paper—I think still that I have fixed the right day for the different conversations, and not made any mistake.

Re-examined. He paid for the drink on the Saturday night—he would have spent all he had if we had not tried very hard to keep him from the drink—I don't think he mentioned any address at Hoxton.

By the COURT. He seemed so anxious to drink—we take very little ourselves—my husband kept saying "Don't have any more; I am sure you have had enough"—my little girl fetched it once, and some for Sunday as well—it was fourpenny ale—what we got for Sunday was the third sending out—there was a quartern of whisky the second time, and two quarts of beer—I believe the whisky was only had once, but I was not there the whole time—I believe he changed a two-shilling piece—I did not notice that he had a craving for drink after that night.

By MR. GILL. I was not asked about the drink before the Magistrate, and it did no occur to me to be of any importance—I cannot positively say whether my little girl or boy went out for the drink on the Saturday night, for I was very busy—I saw a quart of stout and mild brought in once, and I feel sure by my little boy—I cannot say that I saw any other drink brought in, or whether the pot was full—that was not when he brought the paper; he brought the paper first—I feel almost sure he went on a separate errand for it—the only drink I saw was one pot.

By the JURY. I believe the money was loose in his pocket—on the Thursday morning Mr. Mortimer was very busy making up his books, and the prisoner said "Have you heard anything of this case?"—Mr. Mortimer did not reply, and I said "Who's case is that?"—he "The Hoxton murder"—I made no reply—he took no notice, and I nothing further—that was directly he had finished breakfast—he went upstairs afterwards, and shortly left the house—we found his meals, but there was a fixed price for his lodging—he did not pay us, but his friends have since done so—it was about 5s. for everything.

CHARLES SMITH . I am a carpenter, of 22, Flask Wharf, Hampstead—on Saturday night, February 5th, I was at home about 7.30 when the prisoner came—my wife answered the door to him—I was in the back yard, and came in and saw her and the prisoner—he said that his name was Thomas Cole, and told us to go and get a reference for him at Mrs. Hearn's—he pressed it very much, but I did not go because I knew the woman—I described to him what sort of woman she, was, because I thought I knew her, and he said "That is the woman"—I said that I need not go, and I did not trouble myself further about it—on the Saturday night he stayed in the kitchen with us till about 11 o'clock—he sent for drink; I pressed him not to do so, and said "You don't come here to spend your money; we don't wish for it," but he went and got some; a quart of beer, I think, and someone in the house went and got some more; the little girl, I think—I know there were two quarts—a quart the first time, and a quart the second time, I think, and some whisky—the prisoner paid for it; I do not know how much or what it came to—he seemed rather excited after he had had a little beer and the spirits—he drank some of the whisky, and gave some of it to us—he went up to bed about 11 o'clock as near as I can guess—he remained in the house on Sunday night, Monday, and Tuesday, and on Tuesday

night, about 8.30 or 8.45, he came in when my wife and children were out, and I said "You did not get back to go to the entertainment at the Wesleyan Chapel," Dr. Stephenson's boys were going to sing—he said "I have been to Oetzmann's, and have done three hours' work, which they wanted me to start on a little job, and I went and done that"—he remained there on Wednesday, and till Thursday morning, when just before he left he came to me in the back room, and said "I shall be back, Mr. Smith, in about an hour's time, and if you will give me a hand with my two boxes, which are at Mrs. Hearn's, I shall be obliged"—I said "It is near dinner-time, and I will be here"—that was the last I saw of him—he did not return—his boxes were not at Mrs. Hearn's, and they never came—we left a lamp burning all night for him, and next morning I went up to his room and found he had not been home—Mortimer had gone out early—I told my wife, who went upstairs about breakfast time, and told me about Mortimer's coat—I then went to Mrs. Hearn's to know about the boxes, and when Mortimer came home, which he does at 10 o'clock or at midday, as he is a milkman, I went with him to the police-station; that was between 10 and 10.30—later on the same day this letter arrived in this envelope—I do not know whether it was before or after dinner, but I took it to the station and handed it unopened to Inspector Collins.

Cross-examined. I did not see him open it—this is the first time I have given evidence—when the prisoner came on the Saturday night he said "My name is Thomas Cole: C-o-l-e"—I am certain he did not say Currell—he told me that his aunt, Mrs. Cole, lived at New End—that is not close by; it would take a minute or a minute and a half to walk there—he very much wished us to go there; he said that it would be more satisfactory on both sides to get a reference—I did not know her at first, but when I described her to him he said "That is the woman"—there was nothing to prevent my stepping round there—I did not ask him where he came from—I think he said something about Hoxton—I spoke of different people I knew in the New North Road—he mentioned chapels and places—I do not know whether he introduced Hoxton or I, but I asked him whether he ever heard Messrs. Moody and Sankey when they were there, and then I asked him if he had been at the New North Road; he said that he had, and had heard Mr. Guthrie and Mr. Spurgeon—he said that he knew Walthamstow as well as he did his home, but I don't know where his home was—two quarts of beer were drunk on the Saturday night—I do not recollect any being sent for on the Sunday—there were four of us in the kitchen on the Saturday night, Cole, my wife, and I and a lodger—Mortimer was there—I do not know whether Cole sent for the first pot or one of the others—the boy was sent for a pot of ale, and the prisoner told him while ho was out to bring back a paper—I think we all had some of the ale—the two lodgers had some as far as I know—it was sent for for us to have a drink with him, and I think I had some—some whisky was sent for later on; I don't know what he paid for it—I had some of it—the second pot of ale was saved till Sunday morning—before we went to bed we told him not to have any more—he said "Let us have some more of that beer," and I said "You had better put it on one side, we have had plenty, next Sunday morning I will not have so much if anybody gives me 5s. "—I cannot remember whether he spoke about Oetzmann's having advertised for men; he said

on the Saturday night that he had just finished a three years' engagement, and he had got a three years' stamped agreement from Oetzmann's—he did not say why he had left—he said that he should very much like to get into Shoolbred's—he said that he took his tools to Oetzmann's, not that he was going to serve behind the counter—he got shaved on the Sunday morning—I did not notice whether he had a beard on Saturday night, but he had a little whiskers—when he got shaved there was no alteration in his appearance except that he looked cleaner—he did not alter his clothes in any way that I saw—he had a band on the arm of his undercoat—I did not notice one on his hat—he went out every day, but I did not see him go—he was out for hours the same as anyone else—I had seen his writing in a missionary book as a subscriber.

HARRY AYLEMER MORTIMER . I live at 22, Flask Walk, Hampstead—on Saturday, 5th January, I saw the prisoner there—I had nothing to drink, I was going out at the time—I returned at 2 o'clock and found the prisoner in one of the beds—next morning, Sunday, about a quarter to 5, I went out, leaving him in bed—I knew him as Mr. Cole—I had breakfast with him on the Monday morning, when he said he was going down to make final arrangements with Oetzmann and Co., and that he would give 5l. to get into Shoolbred's, even if he got in as a porter—we slept in the same room on Monday night, and on Tuesday evening we were in the kitchen between 8 and 9 o'clock, and he said that he had shifted his tools and done three hours' work at Oetzmann's, and had bought about two dozen pairs of socks there for 1s. 10d. the dozen—he showed me a pair, and I said that I would take a dozen, and would not mind giving him 3d. a pair for them—on the Wednesday night he slept in my room, and next morning I left quite early, leaving him in bed, and returned to breakfast about 10 o'clock, and he said he was going to this berth, and his occupation would be removing furniture—he also said, "Have you heard anything about this case?"—Mrs. Smith said, "What is this case, about the Hoxton murder?" but nothing more was said—I went out to work, and returned in the evening, and found he had left the house, and my coat was missing that night or the following morning—I went to the police-station on the Friday night—I afterwards went to Mr. Lawrence, a pawnbroker, 250, Upper Street, Islington, and saw my coat there, but I have not had it.

Cross-examined. On the Saturday night I went out when these people were together in the kitchen—he mentioned his name several times—I saw him morning and evening—his appearance was the same, but on the Tuesday night, when he returned from Oetzmann's, he was the worse for liquor—that was the first time I noticed him excited—I did not see the letter about the coat till I got to the police-station.

DAVID COLLIFF (Police Inspector S). On 11th February I was on duty at Hampstead Police-station, and Mr. Smith brought me this letter unopened, I banded it to Inspector Fearn and saw him open it.

Cross-examined. We have not had any cases recently at Hampstead of revolvers used by housebreaking people—my district does not stretch as far as Hoxton—there has been no attempt to shoot a policeman.

WALTER SEWELL . I am assistant to H.L. Lawrence, pawnbroker, of 250, Upper Street, Islington—this coat was pawned there on Tuesday, 10th February, as near half-past 4 p.m. as possible—I wrote this ticket myself—the prisoner is very much altered, but, to the best of my belief,

he is the person who pawned it—he has a beard now, and he has had his whiskers cut off.

Cross-examined. The man had side whiskers, similar to mine and rather fuller, and a moustache; he had a clean chin—I did not notice his dress or his hat.

EDWARD WILLIAM CHILMAN . I am manager to Oetzmann and Co., furniture manufacturers, of the Hampstead Road—I engage their workmen, and no one is engaged without my sanction—I do not know the prisoner, he has never been engaged there at all.

Cross-examined. We had advertised for people just at that time—two or three people might come for work in the course of a day—a man might go to the furniture department and ask for work, but he would not be engaged without my consent—a man applied for work, and our firm wrote a letter to the papers about it—I did not see the letter, but I know the contents—I think it said that a man answering the description had applied, but I cannot say.

By the COURT. A man called on the Monday or Tuesday before the inspector called, saying that he had been employed in the sponge factory; and I told the detective so, as he mentioned a man who had been at our sponge place—I first saw the prisoner before the Magistrate—the inspector called on a Monday—we advertised, and that was the day a man called and said that he had been employed in a sponge factory—I cannot give the date, but the letter was written after the detective called—two constables called on, I believe, a Wednesday, and the person had called on Monday, two days before—the constables told me that the person they wanted had been in a sponge factory, and then it came into my mind—I could not at that time call to mind the man's features, and I cannot say whether the prisoner did call or not—I do not remember him in the least, or ever having seen him—it is probable he may have called—the letter was written to the Daily Chronicle, after consulting me—I think it was sent the same evening after the constable had been.

FRANCIS FRANCIS . I live at 11, Wakefield Street, Brunswick Square, and am employed by R. Creswell and Co., sponge merchants, 32, Red Lion Square—I was foreman there in December last—I do not identify the prisoner, but a man named Currell came there to apply for employment last December, and was engaged by Mr. Creswell to come at the beginning of the new year—he employs about 35 men, boys, and girls—Currell is the first name entered in our books, and a man named Currell came—I only saw him three or four times, and do not recognise him—he was employed on the 3rd, 4th, and 5th, but did not come on the fan or 7th—about 6th January this letter was received by the firm: "126, Green Lanes. 6th January, 1887. Gentlemen,—Will you please excuse my absence from work this morning, as my brother is dying, and I wish to remain with him to the last? I hope to come in this afternoon. Your obedient Bervant, T.W. CURRELL"—he came again on the 8th, and worked half a day, and was paid for three and a half days' work which he had done—he did not come again.

Cross-examined. There is no foreman sponge-trimmer—the man did not complain to me of not being able to use the shears so well in consequence of an illness—two letters were written, but I never saw them till the morning I was fetched to Whitehall—his place was kept open for him; it would have been open any day he liked to come back;

he never was discharged—his was not arduous work, but it required a knowledge of it; I have been three years at it, and am open to learn more—the men work with shears, and if not used to it it might affect their wrists—I did not hear him mention working for an auctioneer-after writing the letter saying that his brother was dying he wrote us this letter. (Saying that he was unable to return till the next week, and asking for his place to be kept open for him.)

ROBERT CRACKNELL . I am a boot and shoe maker at 22, Fanshaw Street, Hoxton—I live and work in the front parlour—I have known the prisoner about eight years, and knew he was keeping company with Lydia Green; I knew her very well—he came and lived at my house last August and shared my bed—he told me he had been into the country with Lydia Green—he paid me half a crown a week—he told me he was at work at Hart's, a sponge place, Holborn way—he did not bring his box, it came afterwards, and it used to be in my room, but it was always locked; I never saw its contents till the police searched it—Thursday, 3rd February, was the last night he slept there, and he left my place between 9 and 10 o'clock on the Friday—he did not tell me where he was going, or that he was going to leave—he did not return, and I did not see him again till he was in custody—he owed me 8s. rent, and 5s. which I gave him to buy me a mattress, and I lent him a coat to pledge for 4s. the day before he left, as he wanted money, which I could not give him; that made 17s.—he did not say what he wanted the money for—on the Friday night I sat up for him till a quarter to 1 a.m.—he did not come back, and on the Sunday night I heard that Lydia was shot—on Monday, the 7th, Inspector Fearn and other officers came, and I showe them the prisoner's box, which was locked—one of the police officers had a key which fitted it; I saw it opened—it contained some linen things and a box containing 38 cartridges—the police took possession of them—on Thursday, 10th February, Constable Reed came and showed me a pair of the prisoner's trousers which had been hanging behind my door—I did not search them before they were given to Reed—this (produced) is a key which I gave to Currell some time before Christmas, as I did not use it, and he asked me to give it to him—it did not fit my door—he did not say what he wanted it for, but a day or two afterwards I asked him if it did for what he wanted it for, and he said "Yes"—he did not give it back to me—I was not aware that there were any cartridges in his box; I never saw them, and he did not speak about them, nor about a revolver, nor did I see one—some pawn-tickets were found in his box—after the death of Lydia's brother he had a band on his hat and his left arm—he wore a blue Oxford shirt on the Friday when he left.

Cross-examined. He was ill in October, and went home and stayed away—he came back before January 15th; I cannot fix the date—he told me he had been working for Mr. Hibbett, an auctioneer, lotting things at sales, after which he got things which were not sold, among the rubbish not worth putting into lots, and he gave me some small ivory things, a shoe-horn and a paper-knife—I saw some of these very things in the box—the box was always in the room—I believe it to be of the commonest kind—it was always locked—I had no key which fitted it, nor did I try—the constable took a key from his bunch, and that was found to fit it—I know that the prisoner went to several sales, lotting—I do not know whether this is the key. (This key was tried to the box, and opened it.) There could not be a much commoner one than this—I saw him night and day; he took his clothes off at night and hung them behind the door, where these trousers were found—I never saw a revolver in his possession—he used to sit with me in the evening when he was at home early—I had a paper on Sunday called The People, and when he came home of an evening he either brought in an evening paper or went out and got one—there was nothing unusual in his being away for a night or two, sometimes he would be away for a couple of nights at a time—he told me the week before that he slept at Bow one night—I can't say that he slept away on a Sunday before—I have not often seen him and Lydia Green together; when I did they always seemed on friendly terms—I know that he used the name of Cole; he pledged things in the name of Thomas Cole—he settled with me on the previous Monday for the money he owed me; he paid me 11s.; that was up to the Monday, but there would be another week's rent due on Tuesday—he bought a mattress for me for 5s.—I gave him the money—that was the mattress I gold to Mrs. Sutton—we had some words about the mattress on the Monday, and that was how he settled with me—on the Tuesday he asked me for some money, and I gave him 10s. 6d. back out of the 11s. he gave me; I kept 6d. back for his washing—I was then on good terms with him again—he has not assisted me with regard to pawning when I have been hard up—he never lent me things to pawn; I have lent him things—I knew he had been in the Army; I did not know in what name—Walter has slept in my house also—Fanshawe Street is not very far from Baches Street; if he had desired to come there on Friday or Saturday to go to his box he could have done so—I have people come in and out of my place—the box was left in my room all the time he was away, from October to January—I had seen him in the interval; he looked in when he could walk so far, and I used to walk back with him of an evening—he had congestion of the lungs and rheumatics—he told me about his wrist being affected—he said nothing about his power of using the shears—I knew that Lydia Green's brother was dead—the prisoner came to my place about that time, and was living with me—he stayed away the night her brother was taken ill, and that was all—after the death he was there a good deal, assisting Mrs. Green—he had no beard; he was clean shaved, with the exception of the sides of his face and a moustache—all the time the box was there I never thought of looking into it, because one time when he was ill he offered me a key to bring him something out of it, and I said I would rather he would do it himself—that was in October—I saw the key found in his trousers pocket; I knew it was there—I did not see two or three keys in the box when it was opened, but I saw some of the ivory things which he got from sales—I have met him out with Lydia—she has not come to see him.

Re-examined. When he was ill he was staying with his brother at 126, Highbury New Park—when he said he was going to sleep at Bow he said "At Mrs. Green's," but I did not know where it was—I had no other lodgers in the house at the time with me, but I only occupy one room; other rooms were occupied by other people—none of them could get into my room, because I always had the key.

By MR. GILL. There were not six lots of people, only four—this is the key of my door (producing it)—it is a very ordinary door-key—when

I went out I put it above the door in case any one came in in my absence—that was a plan arranged between me and the prisoner, so that if he came in when I was away he knew where to find it—it was just above the street door.

JOSEPH FEARN (Police Inspect G). On Saturday 5th February, about 5 p.m. information was brought to Hoxton Police-station of the death of Lydia Green, and I sent Reed and other constables to 8, Baches Street—they returned to the station about 7.30 and gave me information and Inspector Peel went to Dr. Davis and then to 8 Baches Street and into the back room where the deceased was lying—I examined the walls and flooring, and under the bed and the carpet, and turned out some boxes, and examined the fireplace and window curtains, and behind, under, and in the drawers, but found no bullet or mark—I did not search for a bullet, but for any weapon with which the wounds might have been inflicted, and found none—I searched again on the Sunday and again on the Monday after the post-mortem, but discovered nothing—afterwards inquiries were made for the prisoner at 22, Fanshaw Street, and on the 7th I went there myself about 7 p.m. and saw Cracknell, who pointed out this box to me—it was locked, but Sergeant Sage, who accompanied me, had a key which opened it—it contained a quantity of wearing apparel, day and night shirts, one of which Cracknell, claimed, and this box containing 38 cartridges—there is a label on it: "50 powder 5 1/2 grains. 50 bullets, 63 grains. Cartridges for revolver. Eley Brothers, manufacturers, London"—I afterwards handed four of the cartridges to Mr. Oliver, the surgeon, and kept the rest—I also found this letter in the box. (This was without date, addressed to the prisoner as "My dearest Tom." It contained many expressions of affection, and was signed "Your true love, Liddie.") I also found a number of pawnbrokers' duplicates ranging from 5th February, 1886, to 2nd February, 1887. (Many of these were in the name of Cole, one of Crackneell, and one of Bucknell, at three different pawnbrokers'.) I afterwards received an unopend letter from Inspector Canning address to Mr. Cole at Mr. Smith's—it contained a pawn-ticket.

Cross-examined. I have been at Hoxton about nine months—there have been some burglaries there by armed criminals, but not many—we have a man in custody for attempting to murder a policeman in pitfield Street, a few-minutes' walk from Baches Street: and two years ago, before I went there, a policeman was shot at by a burglar—an attempt was made to murder Detective Cooper within the last two or three weeks, not with a revolver but a jemmy; that was at Hoxton close to this place—two constables were shot in the other matter—we had a man in custody for the attempted murder—he was not recognised and was discharged—I believe he is at large now—I did not see Mrs. Green on the evening of the murder; I saw Mrs. Gauntlett and Amy Green and Attrell—I did not search the kitchen, only the front and back parlours—I have never examined the house—Inspector Peel has charge of the case—I did not go to Fanshaw Street till the Monday—I did not go from there that night to Currell's father's house; I went, it may be, a week afterwards—I cannot remember when I went to his aunt's place—I was not looking for any man except Currell; I followed no other clue—I had no authority to examine the whole house and I do not think it suggested itself to me—I did not know where his father resided either from Mrs. Green or from Cracknell—I found papers and letters from his mother,

and other documents in his box, also five keys, one of which would lock the box, but it was locked and the key inside—he may have had two keys—I did not try any of the keys to Mrs. Green's door—I did not find the trousers—I did not search the place, only the box—I did not examine the clothes or the pockets—Fanshaw Street is a short distance from Baches Street—I have no recollection of a woman who kept a small sweetstuff shop in Whitmore Road being murdered by men coming in early in the morning; I do not think it could have occurred since I have been there—in the last pledge "Bucknell" is intended for "Cracknell" I believe—the names are all Cole except those two—I know very little about revolver cartridges.

Re-examined. When I went to the house in the evening I heard that Lydia had been killed by three revolver shots in her head—I knew that no revolver had been found—I made inquiries at Mrs. Green's house—I knew all the respectable people living there, and I did not think it necessary to search—I did not cause the house to be searched—I had no clue at all to lead me to fix on anybody from first to last—I first heard about Attrell on the evening of the murder.

By MR. GILL. It is not the practice of persons pawning to give their correct address—the total of these pawn-tickets only amounts to 3l. 5s. 6d.

WILLIAM REED (Policeman). I went to 8, Baches Street on 25th February about 5.25—I searched the back room on the ground flood and the front room—I found no weapon there—I searched everywhere, the walls and all—I saw no marks on the walls as if a bullet had struck—on Thursday, the 10th, I went to Fanshawe Street—I showed Cracknell a pair of trousers which he did not identify—then he showed me this pair hanging behind the door—I gave them to Inspector Peel as they were—they were searched, and a key taken from them.

Cross-examined. I did not look in the pockets—I did not think it necessary to search Fanshawe Street—Peel wrapped the trousers up in a brown paper parcel—I did not go to Currell's father's place, nor his aunt's—I have nothing to do with Scotland Yard—I have not inquired whether Currell went.

WILLIAM PEEL (Police Inspector G). I heard of what happened to Lydia Green between 7 and 8 o'clock on 5th February—I went to the ground floor parlours—I only casually searched one room, the officers had been there before me—on the 10th Reed brought me a pair of trousers—in the pocket I found a key and a knife—I tried it in the door of 8, Baches Street; it does not open that door—the key was identified by Cracknell—I received this letter from him on 15th February; it was not stamped—I had to pay twopence. (Dated Monday, February 14th, addressed to Inspector Peel, G Division, Old Street Policestation, St. Luke's: "To save you trouble I beg to say I shall be at Upper Thames Street Police-station at half-past 9 to-morrow morning, not inside. T.W. CORRELL.") A description of Currell had been circulated with a portrait, a wood-cut from a daguerreotype—I went to Old Street at the time mentioned—I waited from 9.30 till about 11—Currell did not come—I saw him in the custody of Mather about 12.30 at King's Cross Police-station—I said "Currell, I have got your letter"—he replied "All right"—I took him in a cab to Hoxton Station—he was placed in the dock there, and charged with the wilful murder of

Lydia Green—his solicitor, Mr. Newton, came directly after the prisoner—Mr. Newton said to the officer in charge "I hope you will caution him; give him the usual caution"—the prisoner made no reply to the charge—the caution was this: the inspector told him it was a serious charge, and perhaps it would be better for him to say nothing—Currell was taken before the Magistrate at Worship Street, and remanded to the 23rd, when evidence was given, and on 2nd March he was committed—after the Court had broken up on 2nd March, Williamson made a statement to me—I did not know Williamson by name; I may have seen him before—he went to the station and repeated his statement—I went to Baches Street last night with one of my officers—I examined the back of No. 8; there is a back yard—Edbrook, the surveyor, was not there—just opposite the door, which has the appearance of leading to workshops, on the left is a wall about 12 or 13 feet high, and on the right is a lower wall and a closet—there is no outlet from the back—when arrested the prisoner was clean shaved; he had whiskers.

Cross-examined. The prisoner did not give himself up as far as I can judge; the police captured him; I cannot suggest anything else—the letter is in the same writing as his other letter in our possession—the capture was in Florence Street; I understood he was captured—I was not present—Florence Street is 50 or 60 yards from the station—I do not know Robertson Street—I did not examine the house where the murder was committed on the day I got the information—I examined the two kitchens yesterday, the back yard, and the two parlours, in consequence of instructions received—I saw the room where the murder was committed—no one saw me take the key out of the trousers pocket, but I say I did it; it was a superior latchkey—I did not try it at once, because I knew it would not fit—I did not show it to anyone up to the day before yesterday—I tried it last night from instructions received from the Treasury—the one idea I had was to get the person who committed the murder; I knew I could not find him there—I learned there were other keys in the box a couple of days ago when the box came to the Central Criminal Court—I knew of the cartridges being found—the door had a common lock—I did not inquire if there was a revolver at Currell's father's—I employed other officers; I could not do everything—I sent Fearn to Eden Grove—I ascertained Currell was at his father's place during Saturday night—personally I did not search any house—I never saw Lambert till the Inquest, nor Thomas; they were taken to the Treasury—I sent to their addresses for them—Alexandra Chambers is a lodging-house—I did not send to the German Club; that is a night club—there are complaints, but I could not say if it is a betting club—I think Mr. Newton asked whether Currell had got to Scotland Yard; that was his first question—only slight evidence was taken for the remand—I inquired of the officials if Currell had been to Scotland Yard, and they said certainly not—two constables have been censured for not arrested him, Hall and Pottinger—one on the 14th—Hall was on duty in Clerkenwell; Pottinger was on his beat—Currell wrote a letter enclosing a pawn-ticket; that was taken to the station, so that we knew he was in the neighbourhood—I did not follow where he went after leaving Smith's; I nave never found out; we have tried and not succeeded—I have not heard of Allen's Place, nor that it is five minutes' walk from Upper Street Station—it was only once reported to me that he had been near the station, when the constable did

not take him—that was three-quarters of a mile from the station, near the Angel, where there are a number of constables.

GEORGE EDBROOK (Police Inspector). I am accustomed to make plans and surveys—I went yesterday afternoon to the back of 8, Baches Street—I made this plan of the basement showing the back yard (produced), it is made to scale—the right hand side wall is 6 feet high, the other wall 10 feet—Messrs. Bury and Roberta's workshop is at the back, they are marble paper makers and bookbinders—there is a door between the premises which has not been opened for some time, it has dirt and cobwebs' upon it—I went into the workshop—there is a skylight sloping to the back yard of No. 8, covered with a wire shield—from the Crosby Head to 8, Baches Street, going north-east, is 250 yards, and from Fan-shawe Street to 8, Baches Street, 475 yards—two bolts are on the inside of the door and a lock.

Cross-examined. I was instructed between the first and second remands to make a plan of the parlour floor, also of the locality and of the place where the prisoner was arrested—I made those three plans—I made the plan of the basement yesterday—the workshops coyer the backs of 6, 8, and 12, Baches Street—from the garden of No. 8 I should have to get over two walls into No. 12—the door could only be opened from the inside and it opens into the premises, not on to the garden—Peel instructed me to make this plan of the place of arrest (produced)—the corner of Florence Street is 50 or 100 yards from the station.

JOHN VOSPER . I am manager to Messrs. Bury and Roberts, paper rbers, of 12, Baches Street—the workshop is at the back of 8, 10, and 12—our entrance is from No. 12—a padlock is on the door—I have the key—I locked it on the evening of the 4th February, and unlocked it on the 5th—I was the last person to leave by that door on the 4th—I found it in the same condition the next morning—there is a skylight on the workshop covered with a wire fencing, that has existed all the time I have been there, four years—it was broken about Christmas time by a fall of snow—it took about half a day to repair on the Wednesday, and then it was as secure as before—a door leads direct from No. 8 to the workshop, secured by a bolt at top and a bolt at the bottom, and a lock—it is never used or opened—it has only been opened by myself when the glass was broken, and once before—it was locked and bolted on the workshop side—an 18 gallon cask of colour stands in the doorway on a pedestal of boxes—that was the condition of the doorway between the 4th and 5th of February.

Cross-examined. The police did not examine my premises—they came to me first this morning—the only access to the workshop is from No. 12—the other side of the workshop is a disused burial ground—it has two windows—the door at No. 8 has hinges—anyone could go through it through the wooden partition in which it is—the houses belong to Bury and Roberts—I always come first and go last every day unless I am ill.

By the JURY. The door had not been opened during the night of February 4th and 5th.

ALBERT ORAM . I am a painter and live at Alma Road, Canonbury—on Friday, 11th February, I was in High Street, Islington, about 12.45—I saw Currell—I have known him about twelve years—I had read the case in the papers—I followed him across the City Road, down St. John Street Road into Spencer Street—I saw a policeman I now know as Pottinger—when

Currell came neat the constable he turned sharply off and went across to Myddelton Street—I spoke to Pottinger, who went after Currell and spoke to him, and then returned and spoke to me—by that time Currell was walking down Myddelton Street—on Monday, 14th February, Peel spoke to me—on the Tuesday I again saw Currell in Upper Street going towards Florence Street, about 11.15 a.m.—I spoke to Mather, who followed him.

Cross-examined. When I saw him first I knew him at once—Pottinger had to go 100 yards to him, the prisoner was then looking into a picture shop—the constable had to cross the road—Currell did not appear to try to get away—I had not heard that Currell intended to give himself up—I went to the police-station on the morning of the 15th for assistance after I had seen him—I saw him about 60 yards from the station.

HENRY POTTINGER (Policeman N 399). On Friday, 11th February, I was on fixed point duty at the corner of Spencer Street and St. John Street road when Oram spoke to me, in consequence of which I took out a description of Currell which I had and compared it with someone Oram pointed out—Oram pointed to Currell—I went towards him, he was looking, in a shop window in Myddelton Street—I was in uniform—I asked him where he lived—he said in Clerkenwell—I said "I beg your pardon, I thought you was the man that was wanted"—he said "What makes you think that?" and went away—I made no answer—he gave me plenty of time to answer—I did not tell him what he was wanted for—he walked down Myddelton Street—I identified him in custody as the man I had seen in Myddelton Street at 1 o'clock on Friday.

Cross-examined. I said "I thought you was the man that was wanted"—I was suspended—the description I had did not tally with him.

CHARLES MATHER (Policeman G). On Tuesday morning, 15th February, Peel gave me instructions in Upper Street—I went with Oram along the street—I was not in uniform—about 11 o'clock, after walking with Oram about a quarter of an hour, he pointed to Currell crossing the road about 80 or 90 yards off I—then sent him to Upper Street Police-station for assistance—I followed Currell, saw him turn down Florence Street; I ran behind him about 40 yards and seized him with both arms from behind—he was walking at a moderate pace from Upper Street towards Canonbury—he struggled to free his arms, and in that way we ran about four or five yards—I said, "I am a police officer, Currell; I arrest you for killing Lydia Green on the 5th of this month at Hoxton"—he replied, "All right, I meant to give myself up"—I then walked with him to Upper Street Police-station—I saw Peel—I took hold of him by the right arm—from there I took him in a cab to Hoxton station, where he was charged—he was searched—I found a small piece of gold beater's skin, no money, and no letters—he was wearing a black overcoat, a felt hat, and a white shirt—there was no band on the hat, nor on the coat—there were band marks on the arm—at the police-station he said, "You did not flatter me much with that photo"—that was while he was having some refreshment.

Cross-examined.—I do not remember his saying he had gone to Scotland Yard—I did not hear it—I was in charge of him—that was the first question I was asked at the police-court—I ran about 50 yards while Currell was walking—the impetus of my running would force him three or four yards—he struggled to get away—I heard of a police

Constable being shot at Hoxton—I conveyed him about 50 or 60 yards to the police station—I had two uniform constables walking behind, but they did not touch him—I have notes, which I put down at the police station when I had time.

EMMA COLEMAN . I live at 12, Baches Street, Hoxton—I was sent for, on 5th February, to lay out the body of the deceased woman, about 8.15—she was still lying on the floor—I assisted to take her up—whilst washing the blood from her face I discovered a wound over the left temple, and little black spots as large as a pin's head right round the wound, also a wound on the fleshy part of the right thumb, with thick congealed blood; also two wounds under the right jaw, with thick congealed blood; some bruises on the right ear, black and blue—there were two pools of blood on the floor, one where the hand had lain—I examined the walls—I saw no bullet marks—I did not notice any smell of gunpowder.

JOHN DAVIS , M.D. I live at 91, New North Road—I know Mrs. Green and her family, including Lydia—on 5th of February, about 7.40, I was sent for to 8, Baches Street—I went at once—I got there at 7.45—I went into the back bedroom on the ground-floor—a lamp was not burning—there was no artificial light, only what came from the window—Lydia's head was resting on her sister Amy's knee—I had no idea of any foul play—a rupture of a blood-vessel was the message brought to me—the body was warm—she was quite dead—she had been dead more than half-an-hour—I noticed a quantity of blood which had flowed from the left half of the forehead—I examined the wound with my fingers and found there was a fracture of the bone—I left directions that the Coroner should be communicated with, and went to a labour case—a message was left at my surgery about 5 o'clock—I went again at 6.30—I found Lydia on the bed—I made a further examination—I found two wounds in the neck, and, the blood having been washed from the forehead, a wound in the left half of the forehead; and a slight discoloration round the wound—I put my finger there and saw marks of gunpowder and a punctured wound—from the quantity of ingrained powder I should say the shot must have been fired close—there was a circular wound on the fore finger, near the thumb, and another one nearer the index finger—I did not probe it—an Inquest was held on the 8th, and adjourned to 11th February—I did not make a post-mortem examination—I was not present when it was made.

Cross-examined. No suggestion was made of a suspicion of murder—I questioned as to any noise, shrieks, or any evidence of a struggle, and was told the noise of a fall had been heard, from which the mother thought the daughter had fallen—the fact that I did not examine very closely was the result of the statements made to me and the urgency of the labour case—I should say there were three shots, there might have been four.

By the COURT. The cause of death was a compound fracture of the skull—she might have fallen on the chest of drawers, the blood was alongside—I could feel the bones crepitating—I thought possibly she might have fainted or had a fit, I could not form a correct estimate of the cause—her foot might have caught in the carpet; I have not heard of such a case, such a thing is possible.

PETER LUDWIG BURCHELL , M.D., B.M. I am a divisional surgeon of police—on Monday, 7th February, I received instructions from Mr. Wynn Westcott, the Coroner, to make a post-mortem examination on the body, which had been removed to the mortuary under Shoreditch Church—I

made the post-mortem examination on that day—my partner, Mr. Oliver, was present and assisted—the body had been washed and prepared—there were two wounds on the neck at the angle of the right-hand side of the jaw, near the corner, not quite an inch apart, about half an inch perhaps—they were punctured wounds, and we traced the course of the bullet—on the inside of one wound we found a small sticking of lead, which has been produced, and farther on a bullet lying close to the back of the tongue, near the uvula, not penetrating the mucous membrane of the mouth—in the head I found a wound about half an inch externally on the occipital ridge; that fractured the skull—there were marks of gunpowder—in cutting into the scalp we found two pieces of lead, and following up the course of the bullet about two inches into the brain itself we found a larger piece with a portion of bone that it had carried on it—Mr. Oliver took charge of those pieces of lead—there was only one entrance—one shot must have caused the injury to the brain and the skull—striking the bone, of course, would divide the bullet—a pistol bullet must have entered the palmar surface of the thumb between the thumb and the first finger, shattering the metacarpal joint entirely, and making its exit with a different shaped wound in the dorsal surface—we did not find any bullet there—she must have had her hand up—the cause of death was injury to the brain; the other wounds must have occurred beforehand—the injury to the brain and the shock would cause instantaneous death—the wounds to the neck would not have caused death immediately—the shot in the brain must have been fired last because that caused immediate death—it is possible, but not probable, for the deceased to have fallen dead at the first shot in the neck.

Cross-examined. My opinion is that there were four shots; there must have been three—I think there were two in the neck, one in the head, and one in the hand—I have not made experiments with bullets—there are five pieces of lead, one almost, if not quite, an entire bullet; that was in the throat behind, in the neck; one piece of lead was in the brain, two under the scalp—the girl was not pregnant.

Re-examined. She had no hymen—possibly a bullet may have gone through the hand, shattered the bone, and a piece of that bullet may have gone into the neck—I am certain the wounds could not have been self-inflicted.

FRANK HEWITT OLIVER . I am the partner of Dr. Burchell—I was present at the post-mortem examination—I took possession of the pieces of lead—the small piece found in the neck weighed 12 grains, the other 58 grains (produced)—the three pieces of lead found in the brain must have had one entrance—they weighed 34 grains, 20 grains, and 4 grains, making 58 grains, about a complete bullet—Fearn handed me four cartridges on 21st February, from which I extracted the bullets—two weighed 59 grains each, and Nos. 3 and 458 1/2 grains—I produce a piece of lead weighing three-quarters of a grain; it is very small indeed; that quantity of lead might be lost in a bullet by mechanical or chemical causes, chiefly mechanical; striking a bone would take a certain amount off—I have compared the whole bullet taken from the neck with a bullet taken from the cartridge case; my opinion is they are the same kind—I assisted to trace the wound—striking against the jaw would flatten the bullet—I had the door of a room closed, and went a little way off while a pistol was fired in it.

Cross-examined. I have had a revolver—I have no special knowledge of bullets—I have practised at revolver shooting 50 or 100 times, perhaps for pleasure, in my life with pin cartridges, and with similar bullets to these—the five pieces of lead would weigh about 128 grains—the large piece is just as I found it—another piece is not part of it, because it shows no evidence of having lost any considerable amount, and is not much altered in shape—there would be signs of the smaller piece being detached from the larger—if there was more in the jaw I should have found it; I looked for it carefully—I could find lead easier in the brain than in the jaw—I cannot recognise any one piece as belonging to another—instances are on record in which bullets have entered one aperture, traversed the body, and come out at the same aperture—I do not mean that the bullet has gone into the circulation—probably these small pieced would remain in the body—the pin bullet is an ordinary revolver bullet—I have seen them as long as I remember—the bullets do not correspond with the pieces found in the brain in appearance—the 12-grain piece and the pieces that came from the head are very much alike—I do not mean they formed part of the same bullet—I have a note of the weights—I weighed the brain pieces first—I gave the first piece of paper of weights to Fearn—"Bullets and fragments" maybe grammatically wrong, strictly speaking there is only one bullet and four fragments, making it plural—I made experiments by firing this kind of bullet against something—I have the results—I found two fragments of lead in the jaw—they weigh 70 grains—I do not treat them as a bullet and a fragment—the larger fragment weighs 58 grains—I meant two fragments of different bullets—I describe the larger one in my paper ad a fragment, but my opinion was then and now is that it was an entire bullet, although I have struck out fragment and put portion—I am still of opinion that the three fragments in the brain were of the same bullet—there were three shots; there may have been four.

Re-examined. From the two marks in the neck there must have been two entrances—the parts were so riddled there was a connection—one piece of lead could not have made the two entrances—I found the two pieces in two places—I found the small piece among the debris of the right jaw, the whole bullet behind the tongue—I should have expected to have found it if there had been more than one whole bullet in the skull—I have no doubt about my weights.

By the JURY. There would be no possibility of a shot entering the jaw, then the stomach, without leaving a passage behind it and getting into the gullet; the bullet at the back of the base of the tongue had not gone through the mucous membrane; the gullet is a closed passage, nothing could drop down that way.

PETER LUDWIG BUJCHELL (Further Cross-examined). I made my own notes at the post-mortem examination as I discovered each matter—I have such notes as you would not understand, but enough for me—I have not previously made a post-mortem examination where there has been a charge of murder. (Read: "At the back of the mouth near the base of the tongue I found the two piece of lead produced.") I believe that to be incorrect—you will not find it in my notes—I have a good memory, and there is sufficient in my notes to remind me of anything I may have said. (Notes handed to Counsel) What is there was written at the time—I do not think I said what you have read in giving my account of this

matter—I heard my deposition read, knowing the importance of it—if I had heard that read I should have specially corrected it—I signed my deposition—I have heard my partner's evidence—I did not say before the Coroner "They were lying at the back of the mouth on the uvula"—I may have done so, but that is not exactly correct—apparently I said the same before the Magistrate, in both places and apparently not.

Re-examined. I said before the Coroner "It is clear the two wounds in the neck were caused by two distinct shots"—I have also said with regard to the skull there was the mark of one bullet—there was only one mark, but one thing I was not asked, and did not describe, was that there were two fractures, one passing through the centre of the crown and the other passing sideways.

JAMES CHARLES IRVIN . I am assistant manager to Messrs. Eley Brothers, ammunition makers, Gray's Inn Road—the cartridges from this box are our make—the approximate weight of the bullet would be 63 grains; the label states that—we do not guarantee the exact weight of that class of ammunition—an excess or deficiency of four or five grains would be quite immaterial—these are the seven millimetre metallic pin fire cartridges—there is a description on the box—I saw the bullet produced by Mr. Oliver—I should say from the appearance of the base it was a seven-millemetre bullet—(another) this is also a bullet of a similar kind.

Cross-examined. It is the commonest kind of revolver cartridge—the revolvers were originally French and Belgian—the price is 5s. to 7s. 6d.—we have sold them for years—they are sold throughout the world—they are made in enormous quantities—there is also a central fire cartridge of the same size and exactly the same size bullet—you can discharge it by hitting it with a hammer.

Re-examined. We make 150 different sorts—new sizes are continually being brought out—I do not know of any revolver for which our communition is not used.

By the COURT. Upon hitting a hard substance a bullet would have a tendency to flatten and split in pieces; minute pieces would fly from the bullet—similar pieces to those produced—from my practical knowledge of bullets I should say they would take that form exactly on striking the skull.

GEORGE LAMBERT . I am a fishmonger, of 20, Featherstone Street, City Road—I have known the prisoner six years—I saw him in Best Road, Shoreditch, about five weeks before Christmas—we went in the Prince of Wales public-house—I had a conversation with him—he said he wanted a revolver; I said I would try and get him one, or I knew where I could get him one, and I promised to meet him the next morning at 10 o'clock to go and look at one—I was to meet him at the Prince of Wales public-house—I went the next day, he did not come.

Cross-examined. I have no business at present—I had 15 months ago—I am living in various ways, racing principally—I was in business as a fishmonger at Tabernacle Street, and left it at the latter end of 1885—I am not a bookmaker—I back horses—I live honestly by backing horses, I do not go to race meetings for any other purpose—I followed racing all last year—I have not had a chance this year—I have not done a day's work for 15 months—I have no private means—I have been to the German Club for the purpose of betting—I do not assist a bookmaker—I

have nothing to do with welching—I am not a runner for a bookmaker, I have bet on commission—I go to the German Club in the day, not at night—I have been there all night—a man named Thomas went in the Prince of Wales public-house with us—he followed me in—I believe Thomas is a potman now—I saw where he was working a day or two ago—I know a shop in Old Street, where there are plenty of revolvers in the window—I do not know the name—I know several shops—Thomas was present during the whole conversation—I cannot recollect any more of the conversation—it was in the afternoon, about 3 o'clock—I did not go with him to buy one, I had somewhere to go, not an appointment—I was not going to pay for the revolver, nor to select it—I have no special knowledge of them—I was only going to take him to a place where I had seen them—I cannot assign any reason—I walked with Currell to the next turning—I was with him more than 10 minutes in the public-house—I could not say how long I was with him altogether—Thomas and I left him—I went as far as Pitfield Street with them—we passed some pawnbrokers'—we saw revolvers—I saw one hanging in a window—I did not point it out to Currell—no one has ever asked me for assistance in retting a revolver before—I do not know what assistance I could give—I did not meet Thomas the next morning; I met him some time afterwards—I do not know that I have said that I carried on business at Billingsgate—I have done so—it is true that I was there a fortnight ago—I said "I had a shop round the corner here about a year ago"—I met Thomas some time in the day, not at the time appointed—I remember I said I met him—I have known Thomas five or six years—I have met Currell since—we have not spoken about the revolver—I saw Thomas every day about that time—I did not know about his giving evidence—I went to give evidence before he did—I told him after I had made a statement that they had been for him—I was at the police-court two or three days—I was not paid for going—I have not been paid my expenses—I have not applied for them—I never gave evidence before—I stopped to think of your question—I did not understand you—a Mr. Ralph first poke to me about this case—he is not a detective—I don't know his address—I saw him just before the detectives came—I have not seen him since—I occupy the top floor of 20, Featherstone Street—not by myself—I have been there nine or ten months—by a shop round the corner I meant in Tabernacle Street—I still go to the German Club—I have told you everything that took place in the public-house as far as I remember—no One else was there but Thomas and Currell that I know.

WILLIAM THOMAS . I am an ironmonger—I live at 26, Kingsland Road—I have known the prisoner all his life—I met him in East Road three or four weeks before Christmas—we went and had a drink at the Prince of Wales public-house—nothing particular passed; I had some business, and he invited me back, and I called back—he came out of the public-house with me in the East Road—he told me he wanted to buy a revolver—he said "They have got some in the window there; will you go with me?"—that was at Alton's, the pawnbroker's, five or six doors from the Prince of Wales—we went to the corner—the revolvers were hanging in the window—Currell wished me to purchase one for him; I told him I knew nothing about them, and told him to buy one himself—he made no remark—afterwards he told me that he had an overcoat that he would give me (I was rather ragged at the time) if I liked to call

up at the Mildmay or the other public-house facing the green—one public-house is at the corner of the Ball's Pond Road, the other at the corner of Newington Green—I was to give the name of Thomas Cole when I asked for the coat.

Cross-examined. I was not with Lambert when I met Currell in the East Road—I never went to the public-house with him and Lambert in the East Road—I was not in the public-house when he spoke about the revolver to Lambert—I am an ironmonger, or take a fish-barrow, or do anything for an honest living—I did a day's work the day before yesterday as potman—I went to that situation four weeks ago—before that I had gained my living as an odd man. (Reading from the Depositions: "I have been out of employment for two years.") That is quite right, regular employment—I have lost my berth through this case; another man has to be engaged in my place—Currell asked me to buy the revolver knowing I was an ironmonger and understood the spring—I have said "London ironmongers do not know anything about the springs of a revolver, but country ones do"—I am a London ironmonger—26, Kingsland Road is a lodging-house—I pay 6d. a night, or 2s. a week—I gave an address Alexander Chambers; that is a lodging-house of the same kind—I got thrown out there because I gave evidence—I was never charged to my knowledge—I will tell you what that means: I was charged with attempted suicide and sent to the House of Detention for seven days—I was suffering from delirium tremens; that is the only charge I have ever had preferred against me—that was seven years ago—I have been a teetotaler five years, but I am drinking again now—I did not speak to Lambert about giving evidence. (Read: "I gave a statement of my evidence. I told Lambert about it before I gave that statement.") That is not true—I was not present when Lambert made an appointment to meet the prisoner at the Prince of Wales public-house—I am not sure whether I met Lambert when he was going to keep an appointment with the prisoner—I cannot fix the day of the week or month—Currell was living in Stoke Newington; that is the reason I had to call for the coat in the neighbourhood—I made my statement to the Treasury the Monday before my evidence was given at Worship Street.

Re-examined. I met Lambert in East Road the afternoon after I left Currell by the Three Crowns—I told Lambert I had met him.

By the JURY. Currell did not state what he was going to do with the revolver—I did not ask him what he wanted it for.

WALTER BROWNSETT . I live at 152, Culvert Road—I am a warehouse-man in employment—I used to keep company with Amy Green—I had no key to 8, Baches Street, to let myself in with when I went—I knew Currell—I had seen him at 8, Baches Street—I have gone with him there occasionally—I used to knock—I went to Cracknell's with him, leaving him there—I was always on good terms with him—I knew he was keeping company with Lydia.

Cross-examined. I have slept at Cracknell's—the key I had would not open the door of 8, Baches Street—I have my keys (produced)—I do not know how many keys there were—I borrowed her key when I have been with her at night, but I have always given it her back—she had a key.

DANIEL GILBY . I live at 2, Edward Street, Vincent Square, Westminster—I am a brewer's servant—I am married—Mrs. Green is my

aunt—I used to go to see her, and tell her how my mother was—she was ill—I remember being there before Lydia's death on a Sunday evening—I was in the front parlour on the ground floor with Lydia about a quarter of an hour, when the prisoner came in—he chatted with us—nothing unpleasant occurred—I had no key to the house.

By the JURY. I was married on 1st July, 1877.

THOMAS SARGENT (Police Sergeant). In consequence of what Mrs. Smith, of Plas Hall, Hampstead, said to me I went to Oetzmann's on Friday, 11th February—I saw a person who gave me a description of a person who had been there.

The following Witnesses were called for the Defence.

JOHN BARNES . I have worked at Mr. Edmunds's wood-yard at Barbican for 28 years—I remember a sale taking place there in November, 1885—the place was cleared out—the sale was conducted by Mr. Hibbert, of Stoke Newington, an auctioneer—the prisoner was there, allotting and cataloguing the goods—a number of ivory things and odd things were turned out, like those produced—Mr. Edmunds had a son who has gone abroad—I remember young Edmunds shooting in the yard a good many times—I did not like it—my master has been dead 22 years; Mrs. Edmunds carries on the business—some cartridges were found at the sale—I hit one with a hammer, and very nearly settled myself—I put it on some lignum vita—the prisoner had some ivory things like those produced that were no good to go in the lots—the cartridges were not put in the lots.

Cross-examined. Mr. Edmunds lived at 50A, Barbican—he was an ivory and hard wood merchant—the son was about 15 or 18 when he fired the pistol—he went abroad about 10 years ago—I cannot say how long before he went abroad I saw him with a pistol—I do not know whether the pistol was single or double-barrelled; I never took that notice—he kept it in the ivory room—I have seen him fire the pistol perhaps a hundred times—I never saw him load it—I think he kept the cartridges in a tin box in a drawer—I last saw them at the sale in November, 1885.

Re-examined. I am now employed at Thomas A. Turner's, Old Custom House, West India Dock, hardware merchant—I am manager, and have 2l. a week and commission on what I sell.

JAMES CURRELL . I live at 42, Eden Grove—I went there a little time after Christmas—the prisoner is my son—he kept company with Lydia Green—she used to come to my house—I remember her being there the Sunday before the 4th of February, and on the Friday night—Lydia and he were there about half an hour—I do not remember anything she said on bidding me good night—she did not kiss me—I do not remember anything being said about it—nothing happened that I know of; I saw them go—they appeared to be on perfectly good terms—I do not remember whether she told me where she met him that evening—I am 72 years old—my wife is seven years younger than I am; she is lame with rheumatism—I think they left about 9.30—I do not occupy the whole house; I am only a lodger; I have two rooms—I remember my son coming on the Saturday morning—I was not up—he came to my bedroom—he put a blind up in the bedroom—the blind pulls up with a bracket and roller—then he put me a little sideboard up; he is handy with tools—he came up and I was not very well—he was there from 9.30 till 12—I did not see him all the time—I had to go out and see the doctor—I came back

and found him there—I dare say the work took him most of the time—there was nothing peculiar about his manner—I never saw him with a revolver.

Cross-examined. I did not expect him on the Saturday—the sideboard was put up in the sitting-room—I am a worn-out man; I exist on a little pension my employer allows me—I have been a drug-grinder—I should have put up the blind if my son had not come and I had not been so poorly—I was not going to put it up that morning—it had been there some time, not months; my son brought it—it was a green blind—my son has been several times to see me since having the blind—we have a hammer—I did not see him use it—I did not see him come—I did not see if he brought anything—I cannot tell where he was lodging, not with me, with Mr. Cracknell, I think—I did not give him anything when he left—his mother gave him two shillings to buy grocery—he said he did not know whether he had time to fetch it, but he would bring it when he came that way again; he wanted to see a certain party—I did not trouble myself about it—I did not ask him his business, and he did not tell me—he wanted to get back to the shop—he did not say where he was going.

Re-examined. The blind had been brought there; we had the brackets—I cannot tell you whether he brought them—I had just got, out of bed when he came; I was not dressed—I said "You need not stand about me"—I moved from Green Lanes to another place, and then to Eden Grove—I did not stop the whole of the week at the other place—I moved to the other place about eight days before Christmas—I cannot remember whether the blind was with us at Green Lanes—the sideboard we carried about with us; that was at a good many places with me.

JAMES BRADNAM . I am the landlord of 42, Eden Grove—James Currell and his wife lodged there—they have been with me about three months; they came about the beginning of January—Currell, the prisoner, lived there for about a fortnight—I have seen him at the house with Lydia Green once—she has been several times, but not with him—I saw them together on the Sunday before 5th February at the chapel where I am caretaker—the prisoner came on the Saturday morning—my niece opened the door; I was on the landing—I saw him come—he had a parcel—it was just turned 8 o'clock—his father was not up—the parcel was about 12 inches long—I spoke to him; he talked to me a little time—there was nothing peculiar about his manner—after speaking to me he went to his father's room—I heard him hammering before I went away—I left about 10 o'clock—he was doing something then.

Cross-examined. He came about a quarter-past 8, not half-past—I can fix the time because I was keeping time for my niece at the chapel—I have not been asked about this—I told the detectives when they came to my house—I saw the police and had compassion on them, and took them inside—I did not tell the police I did not remember whether Currell had anything in his hand; they never asked me that—I do not know what the parcel contained.

Re-examined. I am a caretaker at a chapel at Stoke Newington—I have property of my own.

JAMES CURRELL (Re-examined). My gone came in and out—he slept at my house a few nights; I cannot say when; never for very long—I took a room for him, and he said it was too far to go to business, he would

rather go nearer—I cannot remember when that was—he was along with me when ill about five weeks—then he went to Cracknell's—he kept himself while able to work, while he could not he had to stop along with me—he had nothing to pay me, poor fellow—I kept him; I did not allow him anything; I had not too much myself—I do not know the distance from Baches Street to Eden Grove.

JOSEPH FEARN (Re-examined). Eden Grove is about a mile and a half from Baches Street, not more.

GUILTY .— DEATH.