The inspector's agitation was now more clearly exhibited. The murder was a notable one--all London was ringing with it. His eyes wandered slowly over the prisoner's form. The man's clothes were ragged, mudded, and shabby, but were without a patch; his boots showed signs of travel; his face had been unshaven for days. "Search him," said the inspector. The man resisted, his face flushing up at the order; he was not aware that every fresh resistance to every fresh indignity was additional confirmation of guilt. The web was closing round him, and he was assisting to spin it. They found on him some stale bread and cheese. "Take care of it," he said tauntingly. They continued their search, and found nothing else--not a scrap of paper, not a card, not a penny piece, not a knife even. It was most perplexing and annoying. "Your name?" asked the inspector. The man laughed again bitterly. "Your name," repeated the inspector. "My name!" echoed the man, and then appeared to consider what answer it was best to give. "What do you say to Antony Cowlrick?" "Is that the name you give?" inquired the inspector. "Take it," said the man defiantly, "in place of a better!" "Where do you live?" "Under the sky." No answers of a satisfactory nature could be obtained from him, and he was taken to his cell, and orders were given that he should be watched through the night. As Antony Cowlrick, the man was brought before the magistrate the next morning, charged with the commission of the dreadful crime, and was formally remanded for the production of evidence. We beg our readers not to be led away by the idea that we are writing a romance; we are stating plain facts. Without a tittle of evidence to implicate or connect him with the crime, the man Antony Cowlrick has been brought up no fewer than seven times, and has been a prey to the vulgar curiosity of eager crowds thronging to catch a glimpse of a monster whose hands were dyed with the blood of a fellow-creature. He has been treated as though he had already been found guilty--and, indeed, in the minds of thousands of persons he _was_ found guilty; all that was needed was to fix the day, and prepare the scaffold. Rumours, false statements, columns of fiction, all tending to establish his guilt and to eliminate from the breasts of his fellow-men every spark of pity or mercy, have been freely and shamefully circulated. Our columns alone have not been degraded by this cruelty and this injustice; from the first we refused to believe in Antony Cowlrick's guilt, for the simple reason that nothing could be adduced against him; and the course we have pursued has been justified by the result. Antony Cowlrick is innocent. But for weeks he has been confined in prison, and treated with contumely. Yesterday he was brought before Mr. Reardon, at the Martin Street Police Court, and, on the police stating that they had no further evidence to offer, Antony Cowlrick was discharged.