“Which duty you must have to-night neglected,” said the magistrate.
“I beg your worship’s pardon, Gray don’t need anymore watching.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is dead.”
“Dead—Gray dead? It surely is not his murder—but go on—go on.”
Sir Francis reclined back in his chair, and partially shaded his face with his hand while the officer proceeded in his narrative.
“It was nearly half-past one o’clock, your worship, when, upon passing the door of the house where this man Gray lived, I saw it open, and upon examination, saw that it had been forced by some one. Not knowing then how many persons might be there, I ran to the round-house in Buckingham-street, and got assistance, then I and several officers, with lights, entered the house. The first thing we heard was the moaning of a woman, who we found tied to a bedstead in the room adjoining the shop, and immediately after, we proceeded up stairs, when we heard the prisoner calling out to some one—”
“Who did he call to?”
“The name was Ada. When we got to the top of the house, we found the prisoner on the landing, in a state of great excitement, and upon going into the first room we came to, there lay murdered, and dreadfully mangled, the man Gray—your worship had told me to watch.”
“He was quite dead?”