nished the English judges with a powerful illustration of the fallibility of circumstantial evidence, and, as it is not a very familiar one in this country, we will venture to state it briefly.
Bradford's inn stood in a somewhat lonely place, on the highway between the University city and London. One night a gentleman named Hayes, on his way to the former place, stopped at the inn, where he met two of his acquaintances. They took supper together; and as they chatted over their toddy after the meal, Hayes happened to mention that he had a large sum of money with him. In due time the three retired. Hayes occupied a single chamber, and the other two a double-bedded chamber next to him. In the middle of the night one of these thought he heard a low groan in the room occupied by Hayes. He woke his companion, and called his attention to it. The sounds growing yet more dismal, they softly rose, went into the entry, and so to Hayes's door. The door was ajar, and they were astonished to observe that there was a light in the room. Still greater was their surprise when, on going in, they saw a man, holding a dark lantern and a bloody knife, leaning over the bed, on which lay poor Hayes in agony and bleeding profusely. The evident assassin was no other than Bradford, the innkeeper. Hayes died almost immediately. The two gentlemen seized Bradford, took away the knife, and charged him with the murder. This he stoutly denied. He declared that he had heard groans, and had hastened up to see what was the matter, bringing with him a knife in case it might be necessary to defend himself; that, having come in and found Hayes at the point of death, in his dismay he had let the knife fall, whereby it became bloody.
He was, however, duly committed and arraigned. The evidence of the two witnesses was overwhelming, and at once disposed of the case; the jury found Bradford guilty without leaving the court-room. He was soon after executed.
Yet he was absolutely innocent of the murder of Hayes. Two years after Bradford's death, Hayes's own footman, on his death-bed, confessed that he was his master's assassin. He had gone in and stabbed him, taken all his valuables from his pocket, and hurried back upstairs to his own lodging. Bradford must have gone close upon the footman's retreating footsteps; but Bradford, though innocent of the actual murder, was unquestionably guilty of the intent to murder. He had heard Hayes speak of having money about him, and had gone up to Hayes's room to do the very deed which he found just done when he reached him; and he did as he said he did,—dropped the knife on the poor, bleeding man in his amazement and horror. This he confessed to the minister who visited him in jail previous to his execution.
