il
communications corrupt good manners, the evil communication of the
London soot was corrupting the good manners of the heavenly snow, which
had become smirched by the town's embrace, and was sorrowfully weeping
itself away in tears beneath a sky--

No, there was not any sky. For four days there had not been a breath of
air to dissipate the heavy mist, and into this mist the smoke of a
million chimneys had rolled, mingled, and settled down in the streets in
one horrible yellowish-black mirk.

There were gas lamps in Ramillies Street--here and there distinguishing
themselves by a faint glow overhead; but John Whyley, policeman on the
beat, was hardly aware of their existence till he laid his hand upon
each post.

"Now, only that Burglar Bill and Company aren't such fools as to come
out on such a night as this, here's their chance. Why, they might
burgle every house on one side of the street while the whole division
was on the other. Blest if I know hardly where I am!"

J.W. stopped and listened, but it seemed as if utter silence as well as
utter darkness had descended upon the great city. But few people were
about, and where a vehicle passed along a neighbouring street the patter
of hoofs and roll of wheels was hushed by the thick snow.

"It is a puzzler," muttered the man. "Blind man's buff's nothing to it,
and no pretty gals to catch. Now, whereabouts am I? I should say I'm
just close to the corner by the square, and--well, now, look at that!"

He uttered a low chuckle, and stared up from the curbstone at a dull,
red glare that seemed like the eye of some fierce monster swimming in
the sea of fog, and watching the man upon his beat.

"And if I didn't think I was t'other side of the street! Ah, how you do
'member me of old times," he continued, apostrophising the red glare;
"seems like being back at Hogley, and looking off the station platform
to see if you was burning all right after I'd been and lit you up. Red
signals for trains--red signals for them as wants help," he muttered as,
with his hands within his belt, he stepped slowly up under an arch of
iron scroll-work rusting away, a piece of well-forged ornamentation,
which had once borne an oil lamp, and at whose sides were iron
extinguishers, into which, in the bygone days when Ramillies was a
fashionable street, footmen had thrust their smoking links. But fashion
had gone afar, and Ichabod was written metaphorically upon the door of
that old Que