SUPREME COURT.

Evening Star, Issue 3161, 7 April 1873, Page 2

SUPREME COURT.

CRIMINAL SESSION.

This Day,

(Before his Honor Mr Justice Chapman ) The Criminal Session of the Supreme Court, be'ore his Hojjor Mr Justice Chapman, opened this morning at ten .o’clock. The Grand Jury were Messrs/. B. Anderson, B. Bagley, son,, W. Barron, ,J. T. Boyd, J. Brown, sen., J. L. Butterworth, W. H. Cutten, John Davie, George Duncan, J. Galbraith, T. S. Graham, W. Guthrie, Alexander Herdman, Henry Houghton, C. R. Howden, A. H. Jack, J. Kilgour, R. A. Lawson, and W. Mason. Mr W. H. Cutten was chosen foreman.

H4« Honor addressing the Grand Jury, said The number of pivymers for trial this sitting was eight, Avbich was somewhat in excess of what had of late been customary. He Avas sorry to say amongst them there were one or tAvo serious charges. There Avere only five eases entered on the calendar. Of three of them he had /v/t seen the depositions, but they Avere charges of nn ordinary nature of offences against property,/!jj which it Avas quite unnecessary that he should trouble them with any observations. The first case thgt would be set before them would be that of py/ui, an ex-police sergeant, av!io avas charged with having fired a pistol at Detective Farrell Avifch j intent to murder him. The stress of the case, ’ when it /vunc before the Petty Jury, would no doubt be the identity of the prisoner, but there was quite sufficient evidence to leave ground for fiiuHfg a i ■ ill, for Fa. ay!! swears to Jus being the man, tints leaving anything on tin; evidence to the determination of tile Petty Jury. The circumstances wore: Detective; Farrell, on the 4th January, was returning.' home a little before eleven o’clock at night.;

It was dark—neither moonlight nor starlight. He discovered a person dogging hw heels and his vigilance was excited. He looked o\er his shoulder when he was on that (the Court) side of Moray place; the man came close up to him,-— ajpistol shot was fired, winch nnssed him. Farrell made some exclamation, not identifying the man at the time, asking whether ho intended to murder him. In the dark another shot was fired which missed him ; a third shot was fired, which he escaped, but as he approached his own house, a fourth shot was fired which took effect. There was no doubt the person who fired those shots, hei it 'f ™ ' might, intended to assassinate hauell, and that was sufficient to sustain the indictment which charged him with intent to murder-sufficient at any rate on which to find a hill. Ihe identification hv Farrell would be sustained by several slight circumstances, and he believed sufficient evidence would he given;° f commit the offence. However, as they were aware, where evidence was satisfactory to a iurv that as to motive was unnecessary. FviSc of motive was always useful when there was any doubt upon the face of the nholc evi deuce, which doubt that clear evidence of motive would tend to clear up. In like man ner threats taken alone were of no consequence whatever. A man could not he convicted on threats ; hut sometimes they gave force to other testimony, and consequently they were often deemed valuable evidence when the case came before a petty jury. But he might remuu them their business was simply to inquire whether on the face of the evidence, there was a sufficient case to call upon the P answer leaving any matter of defence leaving Se he might call it-of breaking down the testimony on the part of the Crown, to a cute and judicious cross-examination. lUat was a matter they would not inquire into. They had merely to determine whethei theie was sufficient grounds to call upon J e prisoner to answer. He thought they voul £ the cvWcnec of Betcctivc Fp-el <m te sufficient to justify them m kudinga b 11. The second crime against the person ? in which John Gleeson was charged with manslaughter. The circumstances were that at Naseby words took place between him and the deceased, and, according to the evidence of one of the witnesses, they squared up to each other and fought. The prisoner knocked jessed down, and he never got up again hhoitly afterwards it was found he was dead. JN ow it was not likely that the blow itself caused death. In all likelihood the man tell on hard ginnnd, or on a stone, and was killed. Some evidence on that point would be given as to the immediate cause of death, but the secondary cause was the blow, and the prisoner was liable tor tnat. Possibly, when the case was_ heard it would prove not a case for the infliction of severe punishment, for it was quite clear that killing was not the intention of the prisoner at the time. He saw, by a rider appended to the depositions by the Coroner’s jury, that the prisoner had received some provocation ; hut the point of law was : wherever death ensued from the prosecution of an unlawful act, it constituted manslaughter. Now, fighting was an unlawful act, and therefore there would he no difficulty in finding a true bill. Ihc third case of offence against the person was that ol John Gibb, charged with an indecent assault on a very young child. He was sorry to say cases of that sort often occurred, and nearly all were similar in character: that was to say a man took advantage of the ignorance and innocence of a child. In that case he enticed her first into a stable and then into a house. A boy accompanied her, and the man spine excuse to scud him to the Water of Leitly to look for a chain, which probably had no existcnee, ns he could not find it, and while the lad was away the prisoner was alleged to have committed an indecent assault. The girl told the boy almost immediately afterwards, and when she arrived at home she told her mother. In the case of a full grown woman, concealment for a considerable time was always considered a case against testimony, hut he never regarded jt in. that light iu children. In them there was a repugnance to tell what had happened; they did pot know the consequences, and sometimes concealed the But there appeared to be no concealment in .that case. She told the boy and her m,other, the xnotUoT* flxA father, and when questioned she told the whole tale. There was no rtuubb on examination that the child’s person exhibited sufficient marks to justify the statement that an assault had been committed, though perhaps not the full offence of rape. Under those cucumatances there would be no difficulty in finding a bill. It was unnecessary for him to dwell in the other cases. There were several charges of obtaining money on false pretences, and other offences against property. A false pretence was distinct in law from an unperformed promise. If ft promise to do something in future liad not been kept, jt did not constitute a_ false pretence. That must he a misrepresentation of an existing fact. Now, a /also _ pretence need not necessarily bo spoken, and in one or two cases hero ho thought that would be found to be the case. A man, for instance, went and bought goods, and gave a cheque for the amount, whether signed either by himself or some other person, was of no consequence. He tendered the cheque in payment, and the law implied him to represent it to ho a good cheque although he said nothing. In that case the cheques were valueless, ami that was sufficient in the eye of the law to constitute a false pretence. Afier a short absence, the Grand Jury returned true hills against Thomas Ryan, John Gibb, Ah Youck, J. Gleeson, and Maurice O’Connell, being all the cases submitted to them, and were discharged from attendance until Wednesday. /MOOTING WITH INTENT TO KILL.

Thomac Ryan was indicted for having, at Dunedin, o» the sth January, shot, with intent to kill, one J aw.es F/terell. Mr Barton defended.

The following composed the jury: Jamps Wylie, John Collins, James Bradley, John Campbell, James Anderson, William Kettle, Thomas Holland, William Mastercon, John Lindsay, B. J. Lowry, Samuel Perry, and William Thompson. Edward Carroll and John Niven were challenged by the Crown ; and David Mark by the prisoner. The Drown Prosecutor (Mr Haggitt), after narrating the facts connected with the shooting, addressed the jury as follows :—So far as the facts were conceded, it was a perfectly simple case—the prisoner wwld be identified by Farrell as the person who shot him. In cases of this sort, which did not actually involve the life or death of tho person charged, but involving, if a conviction took place, a punishment of extended imprisonment, the jury would pot probably be satisfied to convict the prisoner upon the unsupported testimony of the prosecutor. A man possibly in the darkness —with merely the hgbt i lamp to guide him—or, perhajis, ibg light of the pistol flash might be mistaken in identifying the person. It would, therefore, be well to inquire as to what was the motive of the person who committed such an act as that the prisoner was charged with. Of course if one man Avas seen deliberately to shoot another, there Avas no necessity to enquire as to tho motive—motive was manifest — if the jury believed the evidence which Farrell Ayould give, it Avas not necessary to inquire any further as to Avhether or not motiAm existed. It was possible a motive might exist in the mind of the criminal for the commission of the offence, which motive it was quite impossible to arrive at by any means whateA r er. Still, as he before said, when one person was seen tp shoot deliberately at another, the motive by ’which that person was actuated was of no importance whatever. Butbe would be able in this case to adduce evidence that would convince the jury that tJ? e prisoner had a very strung motive, indeed, for the commission of the offence with which he was charged. This Avas not an ordinary case of attempted murder, such as frequently came before that Court. It was not a case of a drunken quarrel, in which one man in a half besotted condition quarrelled with a man stronger than himself, drew a knife or used some other weapon, and in that half-besotted condition revenged himself by using it on the man who had happened to insult him. Nor Avas it like one of those other cases in Avhicb, during a sudden quarrel, one man drew a knife and with it stabbed another. It Avas a case of a most deliberate and premeditated attempt at murder. The facts that Avould be disclosed would convince the jury that the prisoner had planned this murder beforehand. He had taken the bearings or lay of the cou/it.y, as it were, in order to know where it \vas b<:ac to commit the meditated crime, and lioav it could be best worked out. It would be shown that a, day or two previous to the offence the pri-; souer wap seen by one Albert Byford, who, kept .the railway crossing at the Stuart,

street jetty, wandering about and examining the locality in which this crime was afterwards committed; that he was seen to inspect the right-of-way through which he (Mr Haggilt) had already said he was able to escape into Gaol street, after firing the shots, and that he was seen to go along Castle street, along which be was supposed to have gone after getting into Gaol street. That was the view the Crown submitted. He had taken the bearings of the country to ascertain the way in which he could the most readily, and with the least chance of being seen, make his escape alter committing the crime which was then meditated. He would next proceed to mention the motives which it was presumed, and which ho would ask the jury to presume, actuated the prisoner ; but before doing so he had another word to say as to the difficulty which existed in cases of this kind of identifying the person guilty of committing the offence. Had the first stot that the prisoner fired at f'arrell taken effect, in all probability the case would never have come before the Court. It would have been among the list of those crimes -numerous in Dunedin now —in which the perpetrator of the offence had never been discovered. Supposing the shot to have taken effect, no suspicion would necessarily have attached to the prisoner. It was not then known by anybody that the sort of motive existed, as it would be shown did exist, on the prkouer’s part, and but for this attempt it would have remained unknown. Had Farrell been shot, most likely it would be said to have been done by some person against whom Farrell, in the prosecution of his duty, had given evidence: who, prompted by feelings of revenge, had destroyed his life. At any rate, no suspicion could have resled for a moment on the prisoner; and there would have been no means of identifying any person as the perpetrator of the crime. The prisoner relied upon his first shot taking effect in the way he intended it should take effect. But when it failed, he would in all probability have endeavored to escape undetected, and trusted to another opportunity to perpetrate the crime, had it not been that Farrell detected him at the moment he fired ; and calling out his name as he did, the prisoner must have imagined that Farrell’s cries would have reached the ears of some one. Then it became a necessity for him to des'roy the only evidence that could be given against him, That must have been the case; otherwi-e he could not account for his firing two other shots without any effect. He must have been unnerved by the fact of having been discovered by Farrell, for the latter mentioned Ryan’s name after each subsequent shot was fired. This, of course, was only a more matter of speculation. The jury would require proof of a motive. In the absence of any direct evidence beyond Farrell’s, of the prisoner having been seen to fire the shot, the next thing to be proved was that he was near the spot where ths offence was committed, and therefore might ha> e done it ; next, that be had the means of doing it; and, thirdly, that he had a motive. Mr Haggitt then proceeded to state that it would be proved that the shooting took place at about twenty minutes pa't eleven o’clock on the night in question, and that Ryan was seen in Princes street, between the Criterion Hotel and Herbert, Haynes, and Co’s, close upon that hour. Therefore, Ryan could have committed the offence, if he had been so disposed. Then as to the means. The police had not been able to obtain the revolver with which Farrell was shot, although every search had been made for it. Nor was it likely it would be got. The number of shots that were fired was conclusive evidence that the weapon used was a revolver, which could be made away with without any difficulty. It was quite likely that Ryan, when going along Castle street, had thrown it into the swamp behind the Distillery ; and had he done so, it would never be found. But l» searching the prisoners box there was found by Sub-Inspector Mallard a quantity of revolver ammunition —caps and cartridges. The jury might say that was not curious. Ryan, at one time, had been a police sergeant, and they would expect to find in the box of a sergeant of police a revolver, caps, cartridges, and gunpowder. But it was just the revolver that was not found in Ryan’s. Further, some of the cartridges found in his box were submitted to the doctors who attended Farrell, and they picked out from a number a cartridge of a size that would have paused such a wound as Farrell had. So that, in addition to Ryan being near the place whore the murder was attempted, the jury had sonje evidence that he possessed the njeana of doing it. But the strongest evidence ip support of Farrell’s testimony was that of motive. He would produce letters found in the prisoner’s bo* by Sub-Inspector Mallard—letters which showed that an illicit intercourse had been carried on for years past between the prisoner and Farrell’s wife. In consequence of a discovery made by Farrell some months ago, the prisoner, who up to that time had been on exceedingly friendly terms with the former, visiting his house frequently, was forbidden the house altogether. Still, this intercourse continued, and from letters that would be read it would be seen that the prisoner on every possible occasion tried to arrange meetings with Mrs Farrell in secret plaofie-~-whftfe neither he nor she could be beard <pr seen. Jn one of those letters he would 'be found gpmgjme length of asking Mrs Frarrell to disguise Jiehelf and go up and visit him at Palmepstop, where he was stationed. She would not do so j not that she had a disinclination, but because she was afraid that, as police officers were always stationed about coach offices on the arrival or departure of coaches, she would be seen by one and reported to her husband. From the facts he put to the jury two suggestjjQn® S3 to motive on the prisoner s part, either of Vbi.vfi he considered to be a sound one. The first wa£ had Farrell been put out of the WSY by ifieapy qt pbat first shot, the bar to the illicit intercourse between Ryan and Mrs Farrell would have been effectually removed, and it could have been carried on unchecked. Another motive arose out of the same thing. I£ Fart fill bad been shot dead, the piisouer would have been free to marry Mrs Farrell. The fiisjb piofcive, if the jury came to consider it, was one that Jj.ad a very considerable amount of probability in it. A- 8 a monetary transaction merely, he wished to Ryan would have benefited very well, it be bad managed to despatch Farrell for the sake of marrying his wife. Farrell had been in the police force of this Province for ten years, and W'as considered pretty well on. He owned land and houses of the value of between LGOO and L7OO, the profits of which woujd have gone to his wife at his death, he having no .clqldrep. 'fbey would have done for her life, at any r;Re. After ten years service in the force, fie would be eptfjbied to compensation from the Proviupj&l Govoipment ; and in his case it would have amounted to something over L3OO. Had he been killed that night, he would have been shot, it might have been said, while in the execution of his duty ; and his widow would have received the money from the Government. He also suggested to the jury .that had Farpcll been shot under these circumsialices, whether it was not likely, from the manner ip yducb h e k a< I performed his duty, and tfie idea that wouty have been entertained that ho bad been shot out of revenge by soma on o wh () W h e had pi executed according to his duty, that a public subscription would have been got up for his widow, and a considerable amount collected in that way. No doubt the prisoner himself would have headed that subscription, and would have taken very good care that the amount raised should be as considerable as possible. Added to Ml this was another amount which would have gone to increase what Mrs Farrell would have received, had Farrell been killed- It would be recollected that a short time since a defaulting bank clerk from Sydney, named Warren, was arrested here mainly through I ar rolls instrumentality. A reward of 1.300 was offered by ilm Sydney Bank manager for his apprehension! 'Quite recently Ryan questioned Farrell about this reward. He asked him if a reward had been tififcrfed; and Far* ?

rell said, “Yes, L 300.” Ryan then asked him what part of it he would get. and Farrel' replied the whole. He (Mr Haggitt) though! the things he had mentioned would show tlx’ jury that, on monetary grounds alone, considering the very affectionate terms or which the prisoner and Farrell’s wife were, he had a very considerable motive in com mitting the crime with which he was charged, supposing, of course, that he was minded to do so. With some men, the knowledge that the woman was the wife of the man to be mur dered would be sufficient to deter them from the crime. But men’s minds were different!} constituted, and the man who would attempt murder, would be capable of marrying his victim’s wife, and living upon the profits of his crime, viz., the money that would be derived from him. He would not read the letters in their entirety, or in their order of date, but would merely read one or two of them and extracts from them. There was only one letter from Ryan to Mrs Farrell, all the rest were from her to him. The discovery of the former came about this wise : On one occasion Farrell found Ryan’s likeness in his wife’s workbox. She made some excuse, which apparently satisfied him at the time. She said she stole it from a Mrs Gilligan (Oounsel here read Mrs. Farrell’s letter). Farrell’s suspicious were aroused, and he went to the Pest Office, and there received the following letter addressed to her by Ryan : Hampden, 14th February, 1872. My dear Delia,-—Your telegram came to hand, but owing to my being in Oamaru I could not possibly write by last mail. lam surprised at your leaving the photos. I have not had an opportunity of seeing Mrs F, since, but will the first possible chance I have. I intended telling her they are for poor Nan, who lam really sorry to hear of being so ill. I trust the Giver of all things will restore her to good health again, Pettie, be kind to your dear sister in her illness, and it will be the means of cheering her up, seeing that she has a kind sister even in a strange land. I need not say be kind to your sister, for I know your dear little heart is brimful of kindness. Toll Miss Megley that I will pray for her speedy recovery, and, if you think well of it, I would strongly advise her to leave town for a few weeks. You may think it strange of me saying if she would like to come to Hampden for the benefit of her health, I would only be too proud to find hotel accommodation for her, and that of the very best description. My dear pettie, you no doubt will find fault with me writing so little about you in the first part of this letter, but you will forgive me, as you told me poor Nan thought a deal of mo, and I really must say I feel for her illness. My Delia, —I was greatly surprised at getting a note from F., tolling me that you had left for town, but about mid-day my mind told mo something was to happen, as I felt quite uneasy; but although fate has been kind to us in affording ns the unbounded pleasure of meeting even as we did, still I thought fate was cruel in taking you away from me so unexpectedly. Oh ! pettie, when will wo meet again? I must exclaim, Oh, God ! save my darling until I see her once more. For lam sad at heart; yes, my soul is troubled at the thoughts of living separated from the only object of my affection. Do not think me careless, my dear Delia. I confess I cannot write ; my very mind is confused at the idea of losing sight of you —’fore God how long, that I am unable to write with any sense. Pettie, you say your foot is sore—don’t put a tight boot on for a few days, and you will find it will get all right. I hoard he is back in town; be very careful, for he may look for a letter. Be sure and burn this, and above all things write often, for it gives me more happiness than you we aware of to hear from my dear ; little girl yes, a girl that the world cannot prevent me from loving with all the powers of my heart. Pettie, you never said anything about your health, or if you intend to use the medicine. You must, my little girl, like a good pettie, and I will willingly pay for it, for I am sure it will make my Delia big and strong, Farewell ! At last good night, my pettie, and believe me to be yours most lovingly. Dunn. Do write soon. [Received, Friday, ICth, 1372. — J. Fahhell, Det.]

The following is the whole of the correspondence, corrected so far as to make ft readable i

Moray place, Sunday evening, October lat.

My darling Tom,—l hope you got my last letter all right. lam still at a loss to who to get to address one to you forme. I wish, pettie, you were home, so that I would not be bothered like this. Oh, darling ! if only to see you once a week it would in some way compensate mo. Oh, duck ! you have not the slightest idea how glad I would be to see you, I saw a man last week, who in some resembled you. Oh, how my heart beat at first sight of him! I wish you would come, only to see you once, and I would only ask ono little kiss. Oh ! I would promise to be such a good girl, and not scold you for anything you would pay or do, if you would only come home again. Only fancy, dqqk, the long, long time since I saw you, Oh, my own duck, won’t you let me kiss, oh, piich a hit of times, when you oonjo. You said you would always love me, duck. There is a grand “schame” on foot if I oould carry it out. It would at least throw ns together for some months—perhaps longer. Ho wants me to go Home in the summer—that is if he could afford it—for the good of my health: for I am far from well. If that could be, I would have you come down and lay up sick, and get compensation, and go away to America as it were to your sister's, but to wait for me in Melbourne. Oh, pettie, if you could manage that, we would be at least happy for some time. If I could get Nan Home by the wool ships I would be able to follow her in a few months. I wish yon wore down. But when you come it will bo for good. We cannot live like this always. When wo get to London, I could make excuses for remaining there for a long time under the pretence of fiad health, and wo would bo together all the time. It would be like Heaven, and to be where none would watch us.

You might send me an answer in Precilla’s letter enclosed in an envelope for me. I think it would be _ quite safe. I think they are angry with me; I have not been there only once since you left. I have no other way to get a letter, for I would not ask Mrs T.— not if I would never hear front you. She sets such a value on anything she would do, If you never give her anything, she pulls on such a 'face wfi.qn I get a letter, as if you were a villain, or something like it, just as if she would not do worse than take a little letter from you to me. lam sure a mm might read it, and not err. It is all pretence. My nearest love, who -wovtl.il blame me for having one from my darling angel ? Think over all I told you, pettie, or, I ought to say, all I write, and bo sure and bum all the letters I send. Good-bye, and God bfipss and keep you. Think with love of your ' ‘ Delia.

P.S.—I will soon write again if you dp not Do not write to Precilla, I must wait'in'till yon come down. Friday evening.

My Darling—You will think that I am never going to write to you. First, I must tell you that I got what you left all right; and not toll you how grateful I am for so many acts of kindness to me. I also received your letter all fighjt, and was glad to hear you were as happy as can tie ,Expected ipider the circumstances. I cannot tell you how mls.erabje I have been since you left. You know that £ am alone every night until twelve, so you may fancy how happy I am. Not a soul to speak to, night after night, like that; I think sometimes I will soon be mad. Oh, pettie ! why is the world so cruel to us ? The meeting was like a glimpse into Paradise, and then the door suddenly closed, to shut out fronuis all that was beautiful. Oh, but never mind, love, we may find the key some day that will open all that is bright and happy ; something tells me it will, he so. Mr (haling pettie, it was Nan that was on the beach’ tllafc' day you left. I sent her. I thought you would be pleased to see some one that belonged to me ; it was all i could do, as painful. Do not make use of it again. I know I could not go myself. Vou will bo sorry to hear that poor Shearer feel off the ladder. You know that lamp in the barrack yard. He was lighting that lamp when the ladder broke, and he fell to the ground on his side, and his hack is badly hurt. He remained in the barracks for a week, but the tyrant you know would not let him stay any longer. So the poor fellow’s In the hospital. Pettie, that word in your letter (striving to love me) sounds it was not meant to hurt me, but 1 do not like the word; for your love is all in this world I live for. I believe I would be dead long ago only for it. Oh, darling ! it is the silver border to all my dark clouds. Oh, my own dearpet, it is the only ray of sunshine that brightens all my ( misery, ffo not write to pie until I write to,

you, for I do hotllko to be under a compliment to her. I will always Write to you. Be sure and burn this. For ever yours.

Moray place, Thursday, 24th. Dear Tom,—l hardly think you have received ray two last letters, that is, if what I heard last night was true—that is, you have refused to come to town, and even given up your stripes to stay. I will not believe such a proceeding until I hear it from your own lips. lam really at a loss to know what you mean. I thought it would be the greatest pleasure you could ever enjoy is to come to town. But how is it that you will not come ? Ino not know what you mean, if it is not what I wrote made you change your mind. That is the only consolation I have, oh, my darling love. Or is it that you have changed towards me? If so, it was one of the “pressings” of heart to ask you if ever you did not love me, tell me of it. Oh, Tom, my pet, my duck, will you not explain all to me ? If the world would mind its own business, and that I had plenty of funds, I would go up and sec you, as the Lord is gone to Southland to-day, so that if you will write to me directly you receive this I will have it before ho comes back. You know how to direct it; to the old place; to your little pettie for ever. Oh, it is nearly a week since I heard you were coming down, and I was watching for him overy night, thinking you would be with him, until last night Thomps. told him, in great triumph, you were not to come. Of course, he was glad too, as he was going away to-day. Oh, pettie, I thought you were mad tp refuse to come. I never met such a disappointment in all my life. Oh tell me nil, my darling love, and do not keep me miserable. You know not what a state 1 am in about it. Oh, duck, you are all the world to me. Pettie, I never went out scarcely since; only thinking of you. love; thinking that you would be so pleased when you would come clown to hear that I was a good girl. i s gone to Southland about something or other. Direct Meray place for me.

Sunday evening. My dear Tom,—All is discovered. He called at the Post-office and got the letter. _ Whatever possessed you to write after me telling you not to ? First, he searched my bag and found your likeness, but I warded that off, and said that I stole it from Mrs Gilligau’s sister. That made him suspicious, and he went to the Post-office and found the crowning of all your ——, I told you not to write, but you would do it. Nan is better. I was obliged to sit in the room before her, and hear the letter read to my face. He will never have the chance to see you again. I have not time to write more. Never write again on no account. You will get the valentine from Mr T. Nan is so sorry for him finding it out. With rending love, Delia, If I get the chance I will write again. Oh! ray pettie. Moray place, Dunedin, Sunday evening. My dear Tom,—l will be glad to hoar from you this time, as I bad a nasty dream about you since I heard from you last. I hope you have not met with any hurt. Ido not like to hoar of your going through a rough country; it always makes me frightened, I cried the morning I got your letter, for fear anything would happen yon. Ido pray so fervently for your return. Only fancy, Dudu, I never got one scroll from him since he left. lam sorry I did not go up to see you, pettie, and chance all blame. You must think what times I have here, miserable and lonely. Oh, pettie !_ yon cannot think how miserable I am sometimes. lam near mad When I think of the past, then I am, indeed, sad, and do not care to live. Only for you, I would end my wretched life; it would be a release. Oh, Tom, now I would like to see you to tell you all my trouble, and die near you. I really want to die, Tom. lam not so fond of this world as to suffer in it for the mere sake of the living. lam mad to day, as you will see by the wav I am writing this letter. I was not out or the house since he left. I will not go out until he comes, I want to kill myself. What am I living for? to be a dupe for a villain that is enjoying himself, and does not care about mo ; that is plain to be seen. Pray for me, darling; this might bo my last letter to you. I want you to think tenderly of me, whatever they say. As a little token I •ndnsA the words in sewing on the card, “ I have suffered,” and so 1 hare worked it yesterday for my husband before God and heaven. This is the , and says when lam gone. Oh, pettie, I hope he will let me see you only once more, and I will bo happy.| (Pray, for your little wife,

P.S. —Keep thiajinYcmombrance o£ my unhappy days, which were many. I ask you as a favor to bum my letters. He will not be home. Write to me by return of post. Water of Leith Hotel, Dear Duck,—l am here all day, and cannot see you, of course. I know you can’t help it, but lam miserable. My darling pettie, I have not one single token of you, when you are gone to Melbourne. There is one thing I want you to do, that is to buy mo a light blue French merino dress. It was your fancy; you said—- “ I would love you so well in it.” That is all I want of you, and earrings for Mrs C ; for she loves us both. I hope you will do that; it will not cost much. Excuse this, darling pettie. u ' Delia. It may b§ the la&t request, • "

Friday morning. My darling Dudu,—l never got such a scolding in my life as I got last night from Nan. She declared she would tell him when he would come home. If ao, lam ruined. I wish I did not go down at all last night. Just fancy the impudence of young B saying you were here every night courting. That is what made Nan angry. My darling love, when will the time come when.we will be happy, and dare them all to question or watch us ? Nevermind, pettie ; the can all go to “Old Nick.” There is one th'. g; they cannot make me love you one bit less. The best thing for you is not to como tonight—not until to-morrow night, pettie. My heart and soul are yours, love, so long as the smallest particle of breath is left in my body. Yes, my own darling : you are my life, my'hope, my joy; and without you, pettie, I cannot think of living. Oh, Dudu, what would all the world be without you? all a blank to me. Pray for your pettie, love, and be of good cheer, and I will pray for you. How I wished I was near you this very minute. 1 would get. such a lot of dear kisses. This young puss is leaving me, so I cannot write : besides I am afraid Bet will be out of bed every minute. Do not study the spelling or writing—only the words, pettie. I had not one scrap of paper, but this old dirty sheet. Think of your own pettie oftiui, and Y/ith Jove. She will ever think of yon. Bo sure and come to-morrow night at the usual time. Until then, love me in your heart—only me, Dudu. Your own Pettie. Moray place, Jan. 8,1870. Dear Dudu,—l know that you will be angry with me for not writing to you ere this, but you must think you were not in a very great hurry yourself. However, for that you nave given mg amide reason, so I cannot blame you very much, 1 looked fop a letter front yon with as much ardor as a child looks for its mother, or a new toy. Oh, Dudu, you cannot believe how delighted I was to hear from you: to hear you call me the tender little man’s little wife. Oh, pettie, you are my darling for ever. Dudu, —I hope you have done nothing wrong since you left. I had an awful dream about you. It was this : I thought you were married, and that you told me you could not help it; but that you loved me the same as ever. But I would not let you ; I told you to go to your wife. I W& 8 mqd. I thought it was all up with us. But, Dudn, the hflrpnr pf that moment I could never forget, although it was only a dream. Oh, darling, that will never happen. Oh, if there is any person up there you like better than me, be good enough to tell me. I dream very truly, Dudu. There is something in the wind: if so, tell me, pettie. Tell your little pot that pines for you like a little Inrd in a cage. You said you would come home in three months. Will you, my darling, write to mo all about my dream, if'there is any truth in it ? You will not bo angry for thinking you could do wrong. The reason I did not write was that I wanted tg take you by surprise by sepding you pay likeness. He kept me waiting a fortnight for them. Ido not think they are like me, pettie. Ypu will excuse this scrawl, for I am afraid of him coming home. Nan has been very ill j she will soon die. Write to me as before. P.S.—Write tome, my darling pettie. I pray for you every morning and night. Oh, pettie, como homo to your love, or else I will go mad. You would not, Dudu, bring back the kiss I gave you going away, for I will keep mine for you. I cannot tell you how I missed you on the day you went away, and ever since you left. Oh, darling, 1 never will, never can forget-it is impossible I could—tne happy times we spent together. Ellen is here, and 1 cauaot wiite at all; you.eee it_ia all crooked.

Wotoeeday evening. Sept. 20,1870. My darling Tom,—You must not be angry with me for not writing to you before this, but I have been very angry with you for not paying more attention to the letter I wrote to you before th* last, when I said Mrs T— —■ was not going to have anything more to do with our letters. It seemed to me that you cared so little about the only thing we both had to heart. Now to convince you of what I wrote then, jl tell you now, for the last time, that you are not to have any more letters addressed to her. She is dying, and of course does not want to have any more to do with us. So I beg of you not to direct any more letters to her. I am ill, my love, or else I would not write like this to you. I am not able ;my head is all swollen up, so that I can scarcely see the paper. Oh, darling, if you wish to see mejilive you will come down. Still, I will not say come, but please yourself. I saw B. back in town. He saw you; he told me you were getting so fat and strong. I was so pleased to hear of it. I hope God will give you long life, and learn to pray for your little pettie, who will soon visit her long home, where there is no trouble. Do not be sorry for me, Dudu, for I want a rest. Oh, I long to die, for I never can be happy m this world. My life lias been one sad mistake, and that is the reason I want you to pity roe, when I think what might have been, and ought by right to have been. It would be a comfort to think that some person would feel for me, and you are the only darling one I can look to for that comfort. Oh, Tom, love me as you used to do, and my dying hours will be happy. Still, I would like to see that dear old face, and imprint my last kiss on those mellow lips. Oh, pettie, it would be all heavenly. Tom, you are far happier than I am, for you have your health. Oh, it is a blessing of which you could not be too proud. You must not answer this letter until I will write another to you ,as I have no place to address it to. Nan has been very ill for a long time; she is getting better now. I hope you are quite well, my love, and that you pray for your little pettie, who always prays for you. Delia. My dear Tom,—l came to Palmerston on Thursday. I cannot believe you are so near, and cannot see you. Try by some means to come down without creating a suspiciqq, as Finnegan would tell him al|. I cqulcf qqt writs before this. I thought you would hear of it by some means or other without me writing.—Ever yours, Delia. Friday evening. Dearest Tom,—l received your kind letter this morning, and, dearly as I love you, I dare not run the risk. It would be all right in your place, love, but how could I get the coach in or out of Dunedin. I tried to disguise myself, but do all I could, I would be known. Nan said it was no good trying. There is always police about the coach office: they would be sure to know me at any place, and if he got the least hint of it ho would follow it up until he would find it out, and then all I could do would not clear mo. In fact, he would not believe one word I would say in the matter ; and others would find means of helping him. No, pettie, keep all the love you have for me until some more favorable time, when you will have me to yourself. I know it will be a disappointment to you ; but it cannot hurt you more than it hurt? me. At your decision, oh, darling! how happy we will be, if it goes right, about what I told you; and if you come down it might spoil all, as you said. I am quite happy to wait and see what we can do, pettie. How good of you to send me the P. 0., but I could not manage the trip. I am so glad you love me as you used to do. Oh, my darling ! it is the only thing I live for. I would be dead long ago, only for you. lam so glad you love me, Dudu. Oh! if I was near you, how I would whisper that, with my little head resting on your shoulders, as I often did in days gone by, and hope will soon again. If you would write to him in a kind manner, and ask him to let Nan and me come up for the good of our health —say, to spend Christmas with you. I know he would let us, because he thinks I am changed, and does not think of Dudu at all. Heaven forbid, my angel! You are my day-dream ! the dazzling vision ! the silver border to all my dark clouds ! You are my love, my pet—husband ! Oh. Tom ! if you were here now. when I write, I should go on my knees to blest, td thank you for loving me so dearly. My darling, how can I ever repay you for your goodness to me ? Oh, how good you are, Dudu! I want to be your little slave some day, and then—oh, then, pettie !—won’t I love you with such devotion, such tendernesjj Oh, pettie-1 if I gave way to myself, ever f ljne ; w Quid' be blotted wits a tear. Oh, Dudu! it is so''cruel to be kept here in misery, when I could be happy with you if for one hour, or even half an hour; or if I could only say “Dudu!”—and then tear me away with only one tiny little kiss. Oh, a child never longed for its mother’s breast more than Idoto be near you. Oh, I can’t write more. P.S.—Oh, Dudu !lam so miserable. lam so sad to-night, I cannot write more. Write on Monday, will you, pettie? Oh. 'tot heart W broken. I want to see you, Dudu — oh, bo much!

December 3rd, 1871. Dear Torn,—! know you will be surprised at me for not writing to you long before this; but I really poult} not, as I have been very ill ever sined I wrote to you last. Something told me at th§ time that I would be ill soon. It was and is a wonder to me that I had not brain fever ; but I am pretty well now, thank God. I hope you are in good health, as usual. lam glad you are not hurt by your fall. I knew that I would hear of something, for my dream was so plain. I will tell you all about it some day when we meet. Tom. I want to caution you a little. I hope you will not be angry with me for so doing. I know it is all your good-natured ways that led you to write so kindly to Precilla. Do not think I am jealous you know better; only I cannot listen to a lot of villains putting their own constructions on your good-hearted ways and doings. It is all the little hussey’s doings, and her mad little cranky mother reading your letters to all the people that go there. It is a settled thing you are going to marry her when you pprpe down. You must not blame the people, for it js their own sayings. Indeed, when I heard it first; ; T could not believe it—at least, that they could be so mad; but I went down there on purpose to hear for myself. Judge of my surprise when the young one said up to my face that she would rather marry you, although you were so much older, than marry a young fellow that would not be so kind to her. Now, what do you think of the child you left a few months ago ? I could scarcely believe my own ears. So the mother sat there and listened, and never stopped her. She only said that he would have the cuper of $ wife in her. I was stunned i I cOujd nbt bfeiievp it a reality. I thought I was in a dream. How tile fellow laughed and said you had a taste. Making a real thing of it set me that mad that I thought I would tell you all. You cannot blame them : it is their ignorance. They know not friendship from love, or love from friendship. You will excuse this scribbling ; my hands are nervous. Be sure and write Precilla, for fear of blame to me ; but be careful what you say ! Deli*. Only me, l>u4u — o}d wqr^s, June 17, 1871. My Darling Tom,—l received your kind letter, and it left no doubt on my mind that you are still the same ; but oh, pettie, at times I am near mad, and think a thousand things, because I cannot see you. Do not be angry. Oh, Dudu, you never said when you would come home. You said in three months that you would not stay longer. Perhaps it is just as well that yqu are away ; but then I hayp no pretence. Oh, I would give all I ever saw in this world to see you—to lay my little head on your breast. I want rest; I want to tell all my little troubles ; I want to bo pressed to your heart once again; I want to hear you speak the tender words to mo that you love me. Oh, my love, my life, my own Dudu, why did it ever enter your head to leave town, to rob me of the only delight I had in this world—that is, to see you at times; to be near to you, to beg of you to love mo, only me, Dudu, only your own little pettie. You said so, Dudu; it was only me you said. You said you would bring my kiss back to me. Will yqu, }qve? Qq, Tomj how will I you for your fidelity to me* for your constant love, for your pains to pleats me, for every kind little word? Not one wilj go unrewarded by me, Oh, pettie, lam getting into bad health. I know it, because my mind is always worried in thinking. You wilS only see a pale, faded, little flower when you come back. My body is wasting away. You could not believe it. I feel the palpitation eo often in the daytime. Send the letters the same as before. We will not trouble her long. The answer to this will be our last from there. If you would address them to the house, I would get them in the morning. He would not know, but its bettor not, pettie, for fear.

Dec. 21. My darling Tom,-I hope You will not be angry with me for not writing to you Cre this ; but I have been very ill, and could not got the chance. Oh, pettie, you know not what a miserable Christmas I spent. I thought of last Christmas—how different It was with you ; and although at times you scolded me, still I felt happy to think I could see you, and ask you to love me. Oh, Dudn, will I ever again see you ? I have been spending a few days with the nuns: they are such good creatures, especially the rev. mother. Oh, Dudu, she is a real angel. She loves me, and calls me her little pet. I want you to buy from me a few tickets for their art union. If you will write by return of post I will send you aLI worth for the raffle. I told James I would write and ask you. He was quite pleased, so I hope you will take four at os each, Tom. I hope you will como down and see your own little pettie before she dies. Oh, Dudu, will you see me only once, and I will cue happy. I was at the bazaar last night; you will see my name in to-day’s Times. I would like to see you, oh, so much, Tom, that I dream of you so many times. Last night I dreamt that if I would not write to you, you would love another girl. Then I thought I saw You and you would not speak to me. And you looked so nice, and I cried because I thought you did not love me as before. So James called out to me what was the matter, and I woke. Oh, Tom, you do not love anyone else ? If you do, tell me so at once. Mrs T. is dying fast. I do not think she will live another week. She said to me she would like to see you before she died; but, of course, that is impossible. You can direct <the letters to mo as you did when he was away. There is no fear of him knowing it, for he does not know that I am writing, although he gave me leave to do it, love. Your own pettie always. Write to-morrow. p.S.—Be sure and write to-morrow to your own love. Delia. I hope you will write me a long letter, and tell mo all my loro has been thinking of all the time. Remember, I will get it myself; it is nob like as if I was getting it through other people. Oh, pettie, it is such a long time since I had a letter from you—so long since I heard a tender word from yon—that I can scarcely thinly anything could h«vg Lent it from me. Oh, pet, it it was'iimi I think I would lose all for you, and see you, if only once. Oh, pettie, I was so glad to think of seeing yon. I dreamt you were in the room, and I stole in to get a little kiss on the sly from you, and that I asked you if you loved me as you used to do. And you said: How could I ask you such a thing ? Of course you answered: A thousand times more, if possibly you could do so. Oh, Dudu, you will tell me like a good boy, if you do. I think you do. If you are staying away to do as I said in my last letter, it will be glorious for us in days to come. Oh, pettie, to think of being near you once more in all I could ask in this world, If he 1* not home on Saturday, and you will think better of it, I will come up In disguise to see you. Only fancy, pettie, what pleasure it would bo to be locked m your arms once more. Dudu, lam sure you will be glad to hear that the nasty cough is leaving me—thank God! Poor Nan is sorry that you will not come down. If you will write on the return of post, and address it to mo, you will do me a great favor. It will relieve me from the miserable feelings I have at present. God bless my darling is all your pettie wishes. Dear Tom,—l hope I have given you time to get all your work done. The last time I wrote, you were so busy that you could scarcely find time to answer it, so I thought I would not trouble you again in a hurry. However, as you were happy, I could not complain. I know that. August 24. Dear Tom,—l hope I have given you time to get all your work done. The last time I wrote you were so busy that you could scarcely find time to answer it, so I thought I would not trouble you again in a hurry. However, as you were happy, I could not complain. I know that collecting the emigration money is not the least pleasant part of your duty. Still I think you will be glad to hear from mo. < I have been nearly all the time ill in bed, so you can fancy the pleasant time I had o' it. I have a very badfcold, and severe coughingl all night, Y’hich is really' distressing. Still, as Hay awake all night, I had some happy thought of days gone by, which I fear will never come back. I often think how bright your lot might be if you had never met mo. It is sad to think’l should lr|ng traubty to Ifio offly kindest friend i‘ ever 'met; but it is ray iHife, : T' want jfmv to think’ tenderly of me, whatever trouble ! have brought to you and the pains I have given you all along. Pray for me and forgive me. All my life has been a sad one, and I want pity from you. Mrs T. is still very ill and poor. I thought they were going to leave the place, but they arc still there. Address the letters as before. I hope yo\\ will write sb soon as you get this, Father Coleman told mo he wou|d see you ; he is so nice to speak ta'fsh gentle awl kind, Only faw.)V Dudui Father Coleman comes from near their place, and knows some of our friends. Well, he was so pleased; quite delighted. Both expressed a wish that I would call often. I did so once, and was received graciously by both. I got LlO for the chapel: total amount, LB2 ss. So wo have done well, you see. lam as pale as death ; you will not believe it, but it is a factI had a visit from his Lordship aqcl Father itolemap. tpis Ijpif WPCjf- He said' I looked very fs}pat;ei Hp gave Nan and I two heads and two meade. His Lordship i« skilful in medicine, He said Nan looked very bad; he thinks I am a little consumptive, so that will tell you. He said I ought to take cod liver oil for nourishment for the blood.

My dear Tom,—l hope you will excuse me for not writing to you before, but I could not get a chance of cither pen or paper. Now, I have so much to tell you that 1 cannot say half: only that I am pretty well with all the misery I havo endured. You are the one bright star, my love, darling. My own love, you are all in the world I live for. I cannot blame you for my trouble: I know you could not help it. I think he will never be the same again to me. Only fancy cutting up my black dress, for he said you bought it for me as a riding habit. Ho would pot believe mv oath, but that it was you boqgpt it fur mo. Of course it was a new one | got going up l there, so bo did not see it. Do not mention a word to Mrs T. on the matter, for fear she would speak about it, Ido not know which is the worst time: this or last year. Of course I had you to see then; but now, alas, I have not. Oh, if I could throw myself into your arms, my own dear love. I would indeed be recompensed for all. Now, pettie, I want you to pay the bill of my dress, as I have no chance of paying.

Dudu, ray pwn pc^tie,—You will not be angry fot riot’speaking to you last night. But yriu know, darling, all the prying eyes to devour us if we spoke a word. How I longed to dance up to you as of old, and ask you how I looked. But I could not last night. Never will I forget how kind you were on Saturday. Oh, I longed to kiss you. I was glad that Fair stole the shilling, so as that I could wait asking it back until you come in. Oh, Dudu, if I could run to meet you when you came in, and throw my arms around your neck, wy liappjnfeSS Hvould pe complete lam canledown, my riet’tite, i' l ’''' '' l 1 My darling love, tell me If you will stay more than three months away. You said you would come home to your little wife. Oh, Dudu, that word sounds so loving from your lips. Oh, pet, when will the time come when you will love me as you so often did, darling ? Everything is throwing obstacles in our way. Mrs T. refuses having any more letters sent through her. Sho is very religious ; she thinks I sin. I'cttio, that will tell you about the cold world one (?) must be. If she was in the hotel she would not Inind anything, I am sure there is no harm •Iking the letters for me. Oh, darling, will the lime ever come when we will be no longer under a compliment to any of them ? My heart is sore to think that I have ever had to bo under one to her. It cost mo enough, I can tell you, but we could not do without some place to meet when you will come back. We cannot meet there—no, if never—l will be from this time, for I would not please her to do it. Sometimes I think you will at all thin, but again I think you will be vexed to think they would dare entertain such hopes. The idea, | said, that you would link your fafo with pcoihe'of such low origin.' You’, 1 pettie, you Vbuld hot believe it; in fact, I laugh in my own mind at the whole of them- I would not bother you with it at all, only that I felt so mad at their “check,” When I was ill she came to see me, and I know she is sure of all I told you, because she never spoke of you to me as of old—not as the lover, but your kind ways to me. I was very ill, and when she left I thought I would split my sides laughing at the poor silly woman. Upon my word, Dudu, my love, you are a great favorite with the women. My own dear love, I hope you laugh hearty at your future bride Precilla. Just, my darling Dudu, being her husband! Good day. I hope you will continue writing to her just the same, for they f-ouW eusptet Hi* difecßy, and that.would ruin V > • ‘ *’

all my hopes. But mind be ooroful what you say. This fellow Is so pleased to think you are done for, God help him. I have only been down there only twice since you left. I would not been seen going in their way ; they are so low. Do not answer this, pcttie. I have no place to address it—not for worlds to them.

Thursday morning. My own darling love—l cannot live much longer like this. It seems as if I was mad at times : I feel as if I could not do a thing but sit down to think of you. Your image haunts me all over the house. I can see you as plain before me as if you were really there. I can see us both standing, both close together first, in the gardens, then in some other dreary place, with nothing to break the silence but the breathing of our own hearts. Oh, pettie, never will I forget the many happy hours we spent together, pressed dose to your loving heart, or with my little head resting on your manly breast. How happy we both have been, when we had a love-stolen hour to tell each other what we intended to do. Oh, my darling, will the time ever come when we will be free to love each other, as is our want ? Sometimes I can see a bright future —then all seems blank and without a ray of hope. I wish at times we were both beneath the sod, where wc could rest undisturbed. Oh, my darling love, you will never leave me, and go where I could not be with you ? If you do, I will die in your arms. I will follow you, and then die happy with my heart upon your breast. That will be all I want. Oh, then pettie, you can tell the world I died for you—that I could not live without you, and end my life. Oh, how hard the world is; how cruel fate is: my destiny has been a sad one. If you could trace back with me the last seven years, the many lonely hours I spent in pangs of the greatest misery that a human being ever suffered. Oh, Dudu, mine has been a sad life, and I do not see a chance of it being any brighter, I often think that life is not worth living for. Then comes my lover, beautiful—my own pettie—like an angel, to brighten my sad misery, and then life seems bright again. If I could kiss my darling now I would be happy. Oh, pettie, never again hurt my feelings by telling me that I forget you fer any other. Oh, nq, there is not a man in this world \yJm qould rise a tender feeling in my heart for him, only you. One pressure of that gentle hand of thino is worth a life time with others. One kiss from those soft lips—one look from those soft eyes that speak from the soul—a moment pressed to that manly breast is worth years of devotion from others. Oh, yes, my love, heaven will aid us ; heaven will free me some day to be thino for ever. Oh, darling, pray with me that we may be free to love each other. Oh, what a heaven it would be, pettie. May God grant it be so, is the prayer of your own. Delia.

The Crown Prosecutor then called the following witnesses : T. Nicholson produced plans of Moray place and surrounding locality, showing the spot where the assault was alleged to have taken place, and the various places referred to in tne evidence previously taken. Mr Barton then cross-examined witness upon the various places marked on the plans, but without bringing out any tacts not hitherto published. James Farrell, the prosecutor, recounted the evidence taken at the Mayor’s Court, and state I that after he was wounded he moved towards his residence, and, on arriving, knocked at the door. Mrs Farrell carac to the door in her night-dress. Her slater, Annie Megley, also caiqo in her night-dress. Both were together inside when the door was opened. He was positive that the prisoner was the man who shot at him. He had been on friendly terms with the prisoner for a long time, but through a certain cause he prohibited prisoner from visiting at his house in May, 1870. The cause was that on one occasion he carac home and found his wife absent, and on making inquiry found that she had been away during the whole of the afternoon. He went to an hotel and learned that she was there, but failed for the moment to discover who was with her. Ho looked through the key-hole of a door, and saw her standing beside the prisoner. He then opeped the door and went inside, when a conversation took place. He left the hotel, leaving his wife behind, and after a while returned and again looked through the keyhole, when he observed his wife sitting on the knee of prisoner. He immediately the room and said to prisoner, “in th,>S the. commission you have tft n?y house? Is this the \{uy you try tq disgrace me? Leavq t|m rooiq. \ The prisoner left, on the following clay he ordered prisoner by letter to cease visiting at his house. From that time prisoner did not visit, at his house with his authority. The prisoner visited there, however, frequently. On one occasion he saw prisoner at the back door, and heard his wife say “ Come back again to morrow evening.” On the following evening he planted h|mself under the gurq trees, about 10.30 saw prisoner pnter the house, leaving the door partially open. After some conversation inside between his wife, sister-in-law, and prisoner, he heard his wife say “He’ll soon be in whereupon witness walked inside and said to prisoner “Stand there ; I want to talk to you.” Y itness had a fourbarrelled revolver in his hand at the time. He remarked “ This is the way you try to disgrace me. I am a strong-minded man; otherwise I would blow your brains out. Leave my house, and never enter it again.” He did not see prisoner in his house after that date, but saw him in the neighborhood. The letter produced, dated February 14, 1872, was in prisoner’s handwriting. In consequence of something he had heard he yrent to’the Post Office and got the letter.' He then opened and read it, and afterwards went home, and finding only his sister-in-law in the house, called his wife in. When she appeared, he read the letter to both of them, remarking, “ That is a pretty correspondence you are carrying on.” The letter produced was in his wife’s handwriting. It commenced : “My dear Tom,—l called at the Post Office and got your letter. What possessed you tp write?” All the letters produced'were in his wife’s handwriting, In February, 1872, prisoner was stationed at Hampden, and in the following month he was transferred to Invercargill, In June following he was dismissed the service, and came to Dunedin. In March, 1872, witness heard that prisoner was coming to town, and afterwards was told that he was not coming. He knew a Mrs Turnbull last year. She was during the latter part of the year- Beyer insisted on his wife cutting lip a black dress, he suspected the prisoner had giyen'to ‘Her. He heard nothing about a dress up to the present time. The prisoner’s name is Thomas Ryan, but he signed himself Dudu. The prisoner was aware that he had property. All policemen were entitled to remuneration after lengthened service. Some time ago he arrested a bank clerk named Warren, and afterwards—on the 28th of December, 1872 —had a conversation with prisoner relative to the arrest. The reward for the arrest was mentioned.