Autumn brought de Guerchy back to London, where the action for libel was on the point of being tried. The cabinet had all but assured the ambassador that he should obtain a favourable verdict, authorising him to seize d’Eon and his papers. Meanwhile d’Eon, of whom everything could be expected but a retreat, failed to make his appearance in court. His counsel asked for an adjournment, alleging that the defendant had not had sufficient time to summon the witnesses whom he intended to produce; the judges refused the application and proceeded with the case. The desired verdict was given, d’Eon being found guilty; but when the officers of the law called at his residence to notify the sentence they found his apartments empty—the Chevalier had departed. Foreseeing that the trial would turn against him, he had taken refuge in furnished lodgings in the city, together with his cousin de Mouloize. So safe did he think himself, and so little did he trouble himself about his concealment, that he narrowly escaped being arrested forthwith by “two messengers of State who entered the house of Mrs. Eddowes, where the Sieur d’Eon was supposed to have taken refuge, with a warrant and a number of armed soldiers.” “The police officers,” relates d’Eon, “burst open doors, cupboards, and valises, in their search for me, and only found my cousin, de Mouloize, who was quietly warming himself beside the fire with Mrs. Eddowes and another lady. The other lady was she who is generally called the Chevalier d’Eon.” The English ministers, goaded by de Guerchy, and furious at the blundering of the police officers, as well as at the laxity of their chief, were growing impatient. Lord Halifax, extremely displeased that d’Eon was still at large, was surprised at the Solicitor-General’s absence at this critical moment, and requested him to return hastily, in order that the affair might be no further delayed, and that the culprit might be arrested legally and brought before the court to receive sentence. All these measures proved ineffectual, for d’Eon had hidden himself, his recent adventure having taught him to be more prudent. He had set his spies to work, going out “only with all the vigilance a captain of dragoons should observe in time of war,” and was engaged in his retreat upon a “brilliant and exhaustive defence” against the cabal of the court. He was preparing the crowning act of his folly, the set-piece of the firework display with which to astound the ambassador. His “brilliant defence” was about to cause an unprecedented scandal, in London and Paris, unique in the annals of diplomacy. Having disdained to answer the notice of action served on him in the Court of King’s Bench, he was about to summon the ambassador of France before the grand jury of the Old Bailey on a charge of attempted poison and murder.