hat　the　snow…shower　might　be　slight；　he　stepped　back　out　of　the　street　for　a　moment　and　stood　up　under　the　doorway　of　a　small　and　greasy　hair…dresser's　shop；　the　front　window　of　which　was　empty；　except　for　a　sickly　wax　lady　in　evening　dress。
  Snow；　however；　began　to　thicken　and　fall　fast；　and　Syme；　having　found　one　glance　at　the　wax　lady　quite　sufficient　to　depress　his　spirits；　stared　out　instead　into　the　white　and　empty　street。　He　was　considerably　astonished　to　see；　standing　quite　still　outside　the　shop　and　staring　into　the　window；　a　man。　His　top　hat　was　loaded　with　snow　like　the　hat　of　Father　Christmas；　the　white　drift　was　rising　round　his　boots　and　ankles；　but　it　seemed　as　if　nothing　could　tear　him　away　from　the　contemplation　of　the　colourless　wax　doll　in　dirty　evening　dress。　That　any　human　being　should　stand　in　such　weather　looking　into　such　a　shop　was　a　matter　of　sufficient　wonder　to　Syme；　but　his　idle　wonder　turned　suddenly　into　a　personal　shock；　for　he　realised　that　the　man　standing　there　was　the　paralytic　old　Professor　de　Worms。　It　scarcely　seemed　the　place　for　a　person　of　his　years　and　infirmities。
  Syme　was　ready　to　believe　anything　about　the　perversions　of　this　dehumanized　brotherhood；　but　even　he　could　not　believe　that　the　Professor　had　fallen　in　love　with　that　particular　wax　lady。　He　could　only　suppose　that　the　man's　malady　（whatever　it　was）　involved　some　momentary　fits　of　rigidity　or　trance。　He　was　not　inclined；　however；　to　feel　in　this　case　any　very　compassionate　concern。　On　the　contrary；　he　rather　congratulated　himself　that　the　Professor's　stroke　and　his　elaborate　and　limping　walk　would　make　it　easy　to　escape　from　him　and　leave　him　miles　behind。　For　Syme　thirsted　first　and　last　to　get　clear　of　the　whole　poisonous　atmosphere；　if　only　for　an　hour。　Then　he　could　collect　his　thoughts；　formulate　his　policy；　and　decide　finally　whether　he　should　or　should　not　keep　faith　with　Gregory。
  He　strolled　away　through　the　dancing　snow；　turned　up　two　or　three　streets；　down　through　two　or　three　others；　and　entered　a　small　Soho　restaurant　for　lunch。　He　partook　reflectively　of　four　small　and　quaint　courses；　drank　half　a　bottle　of　red　wine；　and　ended　up　over　black　coffee　and　a　black　cigar；　still　thinking。　He　had　taken　his　seat　in　the　upper　room　of　the　restaurant；　which　was　full　of　the　chink　of　knives　and　the　chatter　of　foreigners。　He　remembered　that　in　old　days　he　had　imagined　that　all　these　harmless　and　kindly　aliens　were　anarchists。　He　shuddered；　remembering　the　real　thing。　But　even　the　shudder　had　the　delightful　shame　of　escape。　The　wine；　the　common　food；　the　familiar　place；　the　faces　of　natural　and　talkative　men；　made　him　almost　feel　as　if　the　Council　of　the　Seven　Days　had　been　a　bad　dream；　and　although　he　knew　it　was　nevertheless　an　objective　reality；　it　was　at　least　a　distant　one。　Tall　houses　and　populous　streets　lay　between　him　and　his　last　sight　of　the　shameful　seven；　he　was　free　in　free　London；　and　drinking　wine　among　the　free。　With　a　somewhat　easier　action；　he　took　his　hat　and　stick　and　strolled　down　the　stair　into　the　shop　below。
  When　he　entered　that　lower　room　he　stood　stricken　and　rooted　to　the　spot。　At　a　small　table；　close　up　to　the　blank　window　and　the　white　street　of　snow；　sat　the　old　anarchist　Professor　over　a　glass　of　milk；　with　his　lifted　livid　face　and　pendent　eyelids。　For　an　instant　Syme　stood　as　rigid　as　the　stick　he　leant　upon。　Then　with　a　gesture　as　of　blind　hurry；　he　brushed　past　the　Professor；　dashing　open　the　door　and　slamming　it　behind　him；　and　stood　outside　in　the　snow。
  〃Can　that　old　corpse　be　following　me？〃　he　asked　himself；　biting　his　yellow　moustache。　〃I　stopped　too　long　up　in　that　room；　so　that　even　such　leaden　feet　could　catch　me　up。　One　comfort　is；　with　a　little　brisk　walking　I　can　put　a　man　like　that　as　far　away　as　Timbuctoo。　Or　am　I　too　fanciful？　Was　he　really　following　me？　Surely　Sunday　would　not　be　such　a　fool　as　to　send　a　lame　man？　〃
  He　set　off　at　a　smart　pace；　twisting　and　whirling　his　stick；　in　the　direction　of　Covent　Garden。　As　he　crossed　the　great　market　the　snow　increased；　growing　blinding　and　bewildering　as　the　afternoon　began　to　darken。　The　snow…flakes　tormented　him　like　a　swarm　of　silver　bees。　Getting　into　his　eyes　and　beard；　they　added　their　unremitting　futility　to　his　already　irritated　nerves；　and　by　the　time　that　he　had　come　at　a　swinging　pace　to　the　beginning　of　Fleet　Street；　he　lost　patience；　and　finding　a　Sunday　teashop；　turned　into　it　to　take　shelter。　He　ordered　another　cup　of　black　coffee　as　an　excuse。　Scarcely　had　he　done　so；　when　Professor　de　Worms　hobbled　heavily　into　the　shop；　sat　down　with　difficulty　and　ordered　a　glass　of　milk。
  Syme's　walking…stick　had　fallen　from　his　hand　with　a　great　clang；　which　confessed　the　concealed　steel。　But　the　Professor　did　not　look　round。　Syme；　who　was　commonly　a　cool　character；　was　literally　gaping　as　a　rustic　gapes　at　a　conjuring　trick。　He　had　seen　no　cab　following；　he　had　heard　no　wheels　outside　the　shop；　to　all　mortal　appearances　the　man　had　come　on　foot。　But　the　old　man　could　only　walk　like　a　snail；　and　Syme　had　walked　like　the　wind。　He　started　up　and　snatched　his　stick；　half　crazy　with　the　contradiction　in　mere　arithmetic；　and　swung　out　of　the　swinging　doors；　leaving　his　coffee　untasted。　An　omnibus　going　to　the　Bank　went　rattling　by　with　an　unusual　rapidity。　He　had　a　violent　run　of　a　hundred　yards　to　reach　it；　but　he　managed　to　spring；　swaying　upon　the　splash…board　and；　pausing　for　an　instant　to　pant；　he　climbed　on　to　the　top。　When　he　had　been　seated　for　about　half　a　minute；　he　heard　behind　him　a　sort　of　heavy　and　asthmatic　breathing。
  Turning　sharply；　he　saw　rising　gradually　higher　and　higher　up　the　omnibus　steps　a　top　hat　soiled　and　dripping　with　snow；　and　under　the　shadow　of　its　brim　the　short…sighted　face　and　shaky　shoulders　of　Professor　de　Worms。　He　let　himself　into　a　seat　with　characteristic　care；　and　wrapped　himself　up　to　the　chin　in　the　mackintosh　rug。
  Every　movement　of　the　old　man's　tottering　figure　and　vague　hands；　every　uncertain　gesture　and　panic…stricken　pause；　seemed　to　put　it　beyond　question　that　he　was　helpless；　that　he　was　in　the　last　imbecility　of　the　body。　He　moved　by　inches；　he　let　himself　down　with　little　gasps　of　caution。　And　yet；　unless　the　philosophical　entities　called　time　and　space　have　no　vestige　even　of　a　practical　existence；　it　appeared　quite　unquestionable　that　he　had　run　after　the　omnibus。
  Syme　sprang　erect　upon　the　rocking　car；　and　after　staring　wildly　at　the　wintry　sky；　that　grew　gloomier　every　moment；　he　ran　down　the　steps。　He　had　repressed　an　elemental　impulse　to　leap　over　the　side。
  Too　bewildered　to　look　back　or　to　reason；　he　rushed　into　one　of　the　little　courts　at　the　side　of　Fleet　Street　as　a　rabbit　rushes　into　a　hole。　He　had　a　vague　idea；　if　this　incomprehensible　old　Jack…in…the…box　was　really　pursuing　him；　that　in　that　labyrinth　of　little　streets　he　could　soon　throw　him　off　the　scent。　He　dived　in　and　out　of　those　crooked　lanes；　which　were　more　like　cracks　than　thoroughfares；　and　by　the　time　that　he　had　completed　about　twenty　alternate　angles　and　described　an　unthinkable　polygon；　he　paused　to　listen　for　any　sound　of　pursuit。　There　was　none；　there　could　not　in　any　case　have　been　much；　for　the　little　streets　were　thick　with　the　soundless　snow。　Somewhere　behind　Red　Lion　Court；　however；　he　noticed　a　place　where　some　energetic　citizen　had　cleared　away　the　snow　for　a　space　of　about　twenty　yards；　leaving　the　wet；　glistening　cobble…stones。　He　thought　little　of　this　as　he　passed　it；　only　plunging　into　yet　another　arm　of　the　maze。　But　when　a　few　hundred　yards　farther　on　he　stood　still　again　to　listen；　his　heart　stood　still　also；　for　he　heard　from　that　space　of　rugged　stones　the　clinking　crutch　and　labouring　feet　of　the　infernal　cripple。
  The　sky　above　was　loaded　with　the　clouds　of　snow；　leaving　London　in　a　darkness　and　oppression　premature　for　that　hour　of　the　evening。　On　each　side　of　Syme　the　walls　of　the　alley　were　blind　and　featureless；　there　was　no　little　window　or　any　kind　of　eve。　He　felt　a　new　impulse　to　break　out　of　this　hive　of　houses；　and　to　get　once　more　into　the　open　and　lamp…lit　street。　Yet　he　rambled　and　dodged　for　a　long　time　before　he　struck　the　main　thoroughfare。　When　he　did　so；　he　struck　it　much　farther　up　than　he　had　fancied。　He　came　out　into　what　seemed　the　vast　and　void　of　Ludgate　Circus；　and　saw　St。　Paul's　Cathedral　sitting　in　the　sky。
  At　first　he　was　startled　to　find　these　great　roads　so　empty；　as　if　a　pestilence　had　swept　through　the　city。　Then　he　told　himself　that　some　degree　of　emptiness　was　natural；　first　because　the　snow…storm　was　even　dangerously　deep；　and　secondly　because　it　was　Sunday。　And　at　the　very　word　Sunday　he　bit　his　lip；　the　word　was　henceforth　for　hire　like　some　indecent　pun。　Under　the　white　fog　of　snow　high　up　in　the　heaven　the　whole　atmosphere　of　the　city　was　turned　to　a　very　queer　kind　of　green　twilight；　as　of　men　under　the　sea。　The　sealed　and　sullen　sunset　behind　the　dark　dome　of　St。　Paul's　had　in　it　smoky　and　sinister　colourscolours　of　sickly　green；　dead　red　or　decaying　bronze；　that　were　just　bright　enough　to　emphasise　the　solid　whiteness　of　the　snow。　But　right　up　against　these　dreary　colours　rose　the　black　bulk　of　the　cathedral；　and　upon　the　t