“That looks like one,” he said. “Now steady.”
An elderly, respectable-looking gentleman was approaching us, walking alone from the direction of the House, and my terrible associate was standing under a lamp-post still with his hand in his pocket.
“that looks like one.”
My presence of mind together with my faculty of invention, here happily came to my aid.
“Stay,” I whispered; “mind what you are about, or you will make a mistake. That is not a member of Parliament. I know him by sight but not to speak to. He is a retail grocer who keeps a shop in Oxford Street.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Quite.”
And so the elderly stranger passed us, little guessing what a narrow escape he had had.
The position was truly appalling. Now we neared the Royal Academy, at that time still situated in Trafalgar Square, and my would-be murderer muttered something about “picking off” an R.A. or an Associate. The wretched creature seemed well up in honorary titles. Next we wandered along the Strand, and he thought of destroying a distinguished actor, but the theatrical profession had doubtless long since gone to bed. Thank goodness he had not gone far into the heart of Clubland, or he might have found there a victim worthy of his murderous weapon.