The Bag of Diamonds

“Ugh! what a night! And I used to grumble about Hogley Marsh! Why, it’s like living in a drain!”
Ramillies Street, W.C., was certainly not attractive at twelve o’clock on that December night, for it had been snowing in the early part of the evening; that snow was suffering from a fall of blacks: and as evil 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.