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who maintained a curious relationship with the head of the house, Mr. Bilbo. As a gambler and the proprietor of a gambling establishment, he could never be accepted as a respectable gentleman in London society. There were those who tut-tutted at Sir John’s friendship with such a man. To them, the magistrate would say gruffly, “I like the man, and there’s an end to it.”
    As we passed the house in question, I mentioned it to him and noted the smile spread across his face.
    “Ah yes,” said he, “it is here on the same street as the Lilley residence. I’d nearly forgotten. I daresay Black Jack is counting chips at his club at this moment.”
    “There are a few lights lit,” said I. “Bunkins and Mr. Burnham, no doubt.”
    “No doubt. It is quite late, though. Why, it must be well past midnight.” We walked on in silence, past the neighbors to the Bilbo residence; Pall Mall was then much closer — or so it seemed.
    “I wonder what Mr. Bilbo will do when he hears a house on his street has been robbed,” said I.
    Sir John thought about that a moment, and then chuckled, “He will probably distribute pistols and cutlasses to all in the house. Or perhaps construct a redoubt before the front door. Or both.”
    We laughed together at that. The idea of fortifications built in St. James Street seemed especially rich. What would the neighbors say? Indeed what must they have said when Mr. Bilbo moved in, followed by those persistent rumors that he had made his first fortune as a pirate in the Spanish waters of the New World.
    But to me it seemed that there were more urgent matters to discuss: “Tell me, though, sir, what did you think of those you questioned?”
    “In truth,” said he, “I did not think much of them. The butler seemed interested only in defending himself. The maid — well, she did well enough, I suppose, and I certainly would not have had her get her nose slit to protect those jewels, but … Oh well, they offered something — the porter was actually quite shrewd and helpful, but … but… oh, damnation! It just never ends! Too many robberies! Too many killings!”
    I had not meant to cause him such annoyance. It was just that I had not realized the depth of his frustration. These ironical jokes of his, which now seemed to come with greater frequency, were his way of dealing with his discouragement. That very morning he had bared his true feelings when he had said that he wished the streets were safer. Why had I not then taken him more in earnest?
    All this might have been said to him, but none of it was. I simply grasped at the most convenient response. (Nor, as you shall see, would it have mattered much what I attempted to say at that particular moment.) What I managed was no more than this: “Well, perhaps tomorrow’s visit will prove more fruitful.”
    “I suppose it may,” said he. “After all, we — ”
    He had my attention as he spoke, and so it was that by the light of the streetlamp, I caught a flash of strong movement from the corner of my eye. I turned, looked, and saw that little more than twelve feet away a man stood before us, his feet planted firmly, his arm straightened, and in his hand, a pistol.
    At once I pushed Sir John to the pavement and struggled to throw back my coat that I might draw forth one of my pistols from its holster. As it came free, the man before me fired. I raised the pistol, cocking it, and fired back at him. Had I but taken a moment more I would have hit my target at such a short distance, but my shot went wide. I pulled the left-side pistol from its place and raised it for another try. But by this time our assailant had taken to his heels, fast disappearing down a walkway which ran along the side of one of St. James Street’s grand houses. I went after him, hoping for a better shot. And then, of a sudden, I stopped.
    Good God, Sir John! I could not go chasing assassins, thus leaving him alone. Nor could I discharge the pistol, for there might be others