Cries had been heard in the streets that night at various parts of the town, which, although then interpreted as the quarrels of drunken brawlers, and the conflicts of cats, were now confidently asserted to have proceeded from the unhappy girl in her death-struggle.  But none of these cries had been heard in the immediate neighborhood of the archway.  All the inhabitants of that part of the town agreed that in their waking hours the streets had been perfectly still.  Nor were there any traces visible of a struggle having taken place.  Lieschen might have been murdered elsewhere, and her corpse quietly deposited where it was found, as far as any evidence went.

Wild and vague were the conjectures.  All were baffled in the attempt to give them a definite direction.  The crime was apparently prompted by revenge—­certainly not by lust, or desire of money.  But she was not known to stand in any one’s way.  In this utter blank as to the assignable motive, I, perhaps alone among the furious crowd, had a distinct suspicion of the assassin.  No sooner had the news reached me, than with the specification of the theater of the crime there at once flashed upon me the intellectual vision of the criminal:  the stranger with the dark beard and startled eyes stood confessed before me!  I held my breath for a few moments, and then there came a tide of objections rushing over my mind, revealing the inadequacy of the grounds on which rested my suspicions.  What were the grounds?  I had seen a man in a particular spot, not an unfrequented spot, on the evening of the night when the crime had been committed there; that man had seemed to recognize me, and wished to avoid being recognized.  Obviously these grounds were too slender to bear any weight of construction such as I had based on them.  Mere presence on the spot could no more inculpate him than it could inculpate me; if I had met him there, equally had he met me there.  Nor even if my suspicion were correct that he knew me, and refused to recognize me, could that be any argument tending to criminate him in an affair wholly disconnected with me.  Besides, he was walking peaceably, openly, and he looked like a gentleman.  All these objections pressed themselves upon me, and kept me silent.  But in spite of their force I could not prevent the suspicion from continually arising.  Ashamed to mention it, because it may have sounded too absurd, I could not prevent my constructive imagination indulging in its vagaries, and with this secret conviction I resolved to await events, and in case suspicion from other quarters should ever designate the probable assassin, I might then come forward with my bit of corroborative evidence, should the suspected assassin be the stranger of the archway.