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? 'A bad case, gentlemen,' he was saying, 'a very bad case: it was fortunate that I was passing on my way, if only to identify the prisoner. Dear me! I knew his honoured father, gentlemen; I was his father's unworthy attorney. His father was none other than Sir Peter Halliday. The young man was turned out of the house for misconduct. A bad case----Who would have thought that Sir Peter's son would die at Tyburn?' Then there was another voice: rich and rolling, like a low stop of the organ--I knew that too. It was the voice of the Bishop.