At sight of their fair prey two of the soldiers rushed forward, snatched Mrs Bracegirdle from her mother’s arm and dragged her, screaming and resisting, towards the coach in which Lord Mohun was sitting by his cases of pistols, and in which it was intended to carry her off to Totteridge.  When her escort rushed to her rescue, Hill struck at the old lady with his sword; but the cries and sounds of scuffling attracted such a crowd that a change of plans became necessary.

With consummate cleverness the adroit Captain now took each of the ladies by the arm and coolly conducted them himself out of the crowd to their lodgings, Mohun and the soldiers following ignominiously behind.  Upon reaching Howard Street, the ladies safely indoors, the soldiers were dismissed, and Mohun and his ally, with drawn swords, paced up and down the street, vowing vengeance on the unhappy Montford, whom they considered the cause of all their troubles, and who, sooner or later, must pass through Howard Street on his way to his house in Norfolk Street adjoining.

For two long hours they kept their bloodthirsty vigil, feeding the flames of hate with copious draughts of wine, which they procured from a neighbouring tavern.  The lady had escaped them, but they would at least make sure of her lover, the handsome actor, who on the stroke of midnight turned the corner into Howard Street.

Montford had, it appears, already heard of the frustrated attempt to carry off Mrs Bracegirdle, and that Mohun and Hill were keeping watch outside her lodgings; so that he was not unprepared for an unpleasant scene.  Picture his amazement then when Lord Mohun advanced smilingly to meet him, and embraced him with a great show of affection.  “I am not prepared for such cordiality,” the actor said coldly, as he disengaged himself from the unwelcome embrace.  “I should prefer to learn how you justify Captain Hill’s abominable rudeness to a lady, or keeping company with such a scoundrel.”

At this moment the Captain, inflamed with drink, strolled insolently up to the pair, and, giving Montford a resounding box on the ear, exclaimed, “Here I am to justify myself.  Draw, fellow!” But before Montford had time to recover from the blow and to unsheath his sword, Hill ran him through the body.  Without a groan the wounded man sank to the ground.  A cry of “Murder” arose; the watchmen rushed to the scene.  But before they arrived Hill had made his escape; while Mohun, who at least had the courage of his race, submitted himself to arrest.  His first question to the watchmen was, “Has Hill escaped?” And when he was assured that he had, he added:  “I am glad of it!  I should not care if I were hanged for him.”

Such was the story which sent a thrill of horror through London on the day following the tragedy, and which aroused a fury of anger against the cowardly assassins; for not only was Jack Montford a popular idol who had captured all hearts with his handsome face and figure, his clever acting and his unaffected personal charm, but his wife, who had been thus tragically widowed, was one of the most gifted and delightful women who ever adorned the stage.