Down and Up in Paris and London

It was a few minutes to midnight, and we were finishing our pints outside the Smuggler’s Inn when a gaunt bald man appeared and asked if we had any fire to lend. A light? he said. A match? He was not from here, he said in apology; his English, not so good. He was from Russia. He was from Samarra.

My blood ran cold: Do we have an appointment?