Five million hearts beat in the great cesspool of humanity called London. One of them hammers silently under a threadbare linen shirt clammy with nervous sweat, pressed between dark wallpaper dappled with gaslight and the thin back of a young man.
His footsteps fall softly on the carpet runner of the passageway. He has made it this far without rousing the house, crept in like a weasel snaking down the tunnels of a rabbit warren – through the kitchen door, into the dim hall, up the stairs , and now he crouches, panting, on the landing. The wood of the doorframe is slick beneath the fingers of his left hand, nimble fingers ever so gently prying the half-closed door open just a fraction of an inch more. The other hand, cool and steady, grips the handle of a glistening Moroccan dagger.
A breath of light and voices spills out of the crack; two men, one with a deep, mellow voice, and one giving a sardonic chuckle, continue unperturbed with their idle conversation. A wisp of cigarette smoke drifts into the hallway.
The youth outside leans forward to peer into the crack, and locks his sights on a section of the wall where a long, pacing shadow is passing back and forth. He inhales deeply and hurls his weapon into the room, where its flashing blade buries itself in the wall an inch from a gaunt silhouette that utters an exclamation of shock.
He swears softly.
Meanwhile, from inside the sitting room, the silhouette draws a revolver from the pocket of his dressing gown and addresses his companion with one eyebrow cocked.
"It appears we have company, Watson."