out of bed, and lowering his head over the balustrade, heard the servant scream from the back parlor, " Lord Jesus Christ, we shall be all murdered! " He felt at once it was the murderer of the Marrs. Half crazed with terror, and unconscious of what he did, Turner crept downstairs and looked through the glass window of the taproom (Mr. De Quincey says through the door that was ajar). He could not see the murderer at first, but heard him behind the door, rapidly try ing the lock of a cupboard or escritoire. Presently there appeared in view a tall, well made man, dressed in a rough drab bearskin coat, who knelt over the body of the landlady which lay upon the floor and rifled her pockets. He pulled out various bunches of keys, one of which fell with a clash to the floor. The listening man no ticed that the murderer's shoes creaked as he walked, and that his coat was lined with the finest silk. With the keys now stolen, the murderer retired again to the middle sec tion of the parlor. Even in his fear Turner felt that there was now a moment or two left for escape. The sighs of the dying women, the clash of the keys, and the jing ling of the money would prevent his foot steps on the creaky stairs from being heard. Softly and with his bare feet he ran upstairs to escape by the roof, but in his terror he could not find the trap-door. He then ran to his room, forced the bed to the door as gently as he could, and tied the sheets to gether to drop from the window, which was twenty-two feet to the ground. This rope he fastened to an iron spike he luckily found in the tester of the bed. In a few minutes he had let himself down, and was caught by a watch man who was passing at the time. His first thought had been to save the child, but he was afraid she might cry if he awoke her suddenly, and then both the child and he would have been murdered. Almost speech less, all Turner could do, on reaching the ground, was to point to the door of William son's house, and stammer, " Marr's murderer is there." It was not twelve o'clock yet, and
several persons soon assembled; two of the most resolute men, named Ludgate and Hawse, armed themselves with iron crows, and broke open the door. They found the bodies of Mrs. Williamson and the servant, Bridget Harrington, with their throats cut, near the fireplace in the parlor. In the cel lar they discovered the body of the landlord, which had been thrown downstairs. He had defended himself with an iron bar wrenched from the cellar window; his hands were cut and hacked, his leg was broken, and his throat was cut. The little grandchild was discovered tranquilly asleep. A rush was then made behind, where a noise was heard of somebody forcing windows; and as the door was forced, a man leaped out, crash ing down the glass window-frame. There was behind the house a large piece of waste ground with a clay embankment, belonging to the London Dock Company; and across this the man escaped through the rising mist. The agitation of the neighborhood at the news of these new crimes was irresistible frenzy. People leaped down from windows; every house poured forth its inmates. Sick men rose from their beds. One man — who died, indeed, the next week — snatched up a sword and went into the street. The one desire was to tear and hew the wolfish de mon to pieces in the very shambles where he had been found. The drums of the vol unteers beat to arms; the fire-bells rang. Every cart and carriage was stopped, every boat on the river and every house in the neighborhood was searched, but in vain. Rewards of fifteen hundred pounds were offered by the government and the parish of St. George. The very next day an Irish sailor, named John Williams, alias Murphy, was appre hended at the Pear-Tree public-house, kept by Mrs. Vermillot, where he lodged. About half-past one on the night of the first mur der, he had come up into the loft where there were five or six beds, two Scotchmen and several Germans. The watchman was cry
