One night I was walking home through a fog which, though not possessing the regulation pea-soup consistency, was thick enough to make it impossible to see anyone more than twenty yards away. As I entered St. James's Square I heard footsteps behind me, but having no thought of danger I paid no attention to them. Suddenly I felt a violent blow on the shoulder, and turning sharply round I saw a man with an uplifted bludgeon, in the act of striking at me again. I was absolutely defenceless, having not even a cane with me. The thought, "Wyngate's at the bottom of this!" flashed across my mind. I had just time to jump aside and avoid the stick as it fell. Then I dashed off at full speed into the fog. I was at too great a disadvantage to be heroic.
My assailant made no attempt to follow me. His coup having failed, he no doubt thought it prudent to clear out at once. I could not distinguish his features, but one thing was certain: he was not Wyngate. He was a rather short, thick-set man, wearing a soft hat pulled well down over his eyes. The only other detail that struck me during the instant we were at close quarters was the strong smell of drink which he gave out. I put him down as a hired ruffian, and it became evident to me that if Wyngate were capable of using such instruments of revenge I should have to take him a good deal more seriously than hitherto.
As long as there was the bruise on my shoulder to remind me of the adventure in St. James's Square I was almost prudent. I took to carrying a sword-cane, and went home at night in cabs instead of walking. I also gave myself a certain amount of entertainment by manœuvering to find out whether I was being followed. To this end I used to stop suddenly and pretend to look into shop-windows, in the hope of catching the spy unawares; but, if he existed at all, he was cleverer than I at the game. Nothing happened except a collision now and then, caused by some innocent promenader running into me from behind when I pulled up. Then I had to apologize and try not to look foolish. Finally my natural insouciance got the upper hand, and I ceased to worry about my enemy.
"I SAW A MAN WITH AN UPLIFTED BLUDGEON, IN THE ACT OF STRIKING AT ME AGAIN."
Christmas was drawing near, and I was preparing to leave town to spend the festive season with friends in the country, when I received a wire one morning from Archie Hunter, my Cambridge chum, telling me he was coming to town in the afternoon, and asking me to meet him at six o'clock in the bar of a small West-end hotel where we had foregathered on previous occasions. I was on hand at the appointed time, but there was no sign of Hunter.
"Train late, I suppose," I thought, and sat down to wait. There was no one I knew in the bar, but, being sociably inclined, I was soon in conversation with two or three other men whose only object seemed to be to while away the time. With them were a couple of fashionably-dressed girls, and by and by I noticed that one of them looked at me frequently, not as if she wanted to begin a flirtation, but rather with curiosity. I had never seen her before, but, beyond wondering vaguely whether she had remarked something peculiar about my appearance, I paid no attention, engaged as I was in discussing cricket with one of the men.
Presently two of them began to talk billiards, at which, it seemed, they were old rivals, and, as neither would admit inferiority, they decided to go upstairs to the billiard-room and play a couple of hundred up.
"We may as well go and watch them," remarked the man with whom I was talking.