A SUCCESSFUL CONSPIRACY
My way home lay through Dean Street as far as St. Ann's Church: then I passed across Leicester Fields: and through Green Street at the south-east angle of the Fields into St. Martin's Lane. All this part of the way is greatly infested at night by lurking footpads from the choice purlieus of Seven Dials and Soho. Of footpads, however, I had very little fear: they are at best a cowardly crew, even two or three together, and a man with a stout cudgel and some skill at a quarter-staff or single-stick need not be afraid of them: generally, two or three passengers will join together in order to get across the Fields which are especially the dangerous part: on many nights it was so late when I left the Square that even footpads, highwaymen, pickpockets and all were fairly home and in bed before I walked through the streets.
This evening by bad luck, I was alone. I found no other passengers going my way. But I had no fear. I poised my cudgel and set out, expecting perhaps an encounter with a footpad, but nothing worse. And it was not yet late, as hours go, in London: there were still people in the streets.
What had happened was this. As soon as Probus learned the truth about the gaming-table—a fatal thing it was to disclose my knowledge—he understood two things: first, that his money was irrevocably gone: and second, that if I revealed the truth to the Alderman in his suburban retreat, he must needs investigate the position of things in which case Bankruptcy would be precipitated. After that, whether I died or signed the agreement, or refused to sign it would matter nothing to him. Whereas, on the other hand, if my signature could be obtained before the bankruptcy, then money could be raised upon the succession: and if I were to die, then the whole of the money would be paid on the day of my death to Matthew. Whatever was done must therefore be done as soon as possible.
Therefore, he resolved that the plot should be carried into execution on the very Monday evening. He caused the cottage to be watched by one of the girls who frequented the Black Jack: she followed me all the way from Lambeth to Soho Square: and she carried intelligence where to find me to the tavern, where Probus himself with Merridew, the Bishop, and the Captain, was now waiting.
They understood that I was playing at a concert: they therefore sallied out about the time when the concert would be finishing and waited for me in the Square: at eleven o'clock I sallied forth: I walked down Dean Street: they ran down Greek Street to meet me at the other end, where there are fewer people: but (I heard this afterwards) changed their minds and got over the Fields into Green Street behind the Mews, where they resolved to wait for me. The Bishop posted himself on one side: the Captain on the other: Mr. Probus and Mr. Merridew waited a little further down the street. It was a dangerous plot that they were going to attempt: I am not surprised that neither the Bishop nor the Captain had much stomach for the play. At this place, which has as bad a reputation as any part of London, there are seldom any passengers after night-fall; after midnight, none. It is dark: the houses are inhabited by criminal and disorderly people—but all this is well known to everybody.
I walked briskly along, anticipating no danger of this kind. Suddenly, I heard footsteps in front of me and behind me: there was a movement in the quiet street; by such light as the stars gave, I saw before me the rascally face of the Bishop: I lifted my cudgel: I half turned:—crash!—I remember nothing more.
When I came to my senses, or to some part of my senses, I found myself lying on a sanded floor: my head was filled with a dull and heavy pain: my eyes were dazed: to open them brought on an agony of pain. For awhile the voices I heard were like the buzzing of bees.
I grew better: I was able to distinguish a little: but I could not yet open my eyes.
The first voice that I recognized was that of Mr. Probus—the rasping, harsh, terrifying voice—who could mistake it?