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.