The Mystery of M. Felix

" said Constable Wig

man. Takes things more coolly. Walks slow, talks slow, thinks slow, looks at you

ing sight of anything except the red handkerchief round hi

visit to Mr. Fel

ger in the house," su

e Nightingale. "Every room in it exce

, then' with a

a little cough. "Single. Or, perhaps,

tory, Nightingale. 'You're wanted

bell and says, "Go for a policeman." And he'll not be sorry it's you, Mr. Nightingale, because you're a man as can be trusted,' Mrs. Middlemor

his mind the base idea of endeavoring to supplant his brother constable in Mrs. Middlemore's good graces. What should hinder him? He was a single man, ma

the mark. Come and see for yourself, and don't forget that Mr. Felix has got a liberal heart, and hates fuss.' Upon that, Wigg, I holds my tongue, because I'm a man as knows how to, and I follows Mrs. Middlemore into the house. I'd been inside before, of course, but never upstairs, always down and Mrs. Middlemore had told me such a lot about Mr. Felix'

itated into the passage, and fell flat upon their backs. The reason of the door being blown open so readily was probably, as Constable Nightingale afterward remarked, because the man who had recently left the house so hastily had not pulled it tight behind him, but the tempest was raging so furiously that it might well have made light of such an obstacle as an old street door. It was with difficulty the policemen recovered their feet, and the strength

able Wigg, trembling. He was not remarkable

or; and there, creeping timidly along close to the wall, they saw the miserable half-starved cat which had shaken Constable Wigg's

e, "that this little beast has given me a turn. Just before you

of motion. It remained perfectly still, cowering to the ground. Even when Constable Wigg gave it a spiteful kick it did not move of its o

e shrieking wind tore through the streets, carrying devastation

ything like it?" said

said Cons

e should be dashed to pieces. Besides, what good could we do? B

*

hese reflections, which Constable Wi

opose, Nighting

hen," replied Constable Nightingale, "and

t. Mrs. Middlemore, like a sensible woman, had taken the precaution to bank up the fire before she left the house, and it needed but one touch from the poker t

said Constable Wigg, sto

he whitest of table-cloths would have made but a sorry supper, and in the present instance could not have added to the attractions which the lighted candle revealed. There was bread, there was butter, there was cheese, there were pickles, there was a plate of sausages, there was half a roast fowl, and there was a fine piece o

meditatively, and with pathos in his voice, "it is cold pork and pickle

air of a man familiar with his surroundings, took up

fresh," he

Constable Wigg, not contenti

gale, handing his comrade the knif

eliness of the kitchen strengthened his notion of supplanting Constable Nightingale in the affections of Mrs. Middlemore, but he w

lf a bad supper, to say nothing of sausages, roast fowl, and----and----." He snif

ed Constable Wigg, also sni

s baking in their skins. "Not yet quite done, not yet quite ready to burst, and all a-growing and a-blowing, and waiting for

here was within him a superabundance of vicious energy which required immediate working off, Constable Wigg threw his truncheon at the cat, which, without uttering a sound, fled from the kitchen. "Wh

ingale, with a laugh, "you talk o

not a sound came from it. I kicked it in the passage, and it crept away like a ghost. I let fly my truncheon at it and hit it on the

onstable Nightingale was making himself at home in Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen; or perhaps it was the sight of the tempting food on the table which, without lawful invitation, he dared not touch. However it w

ow tone. "I never thought she'd be able to open the door a

e door, and it was well that Constable Nightingale darted forward to her support, for if he had not she would have fallen to the ground in affright, and the supper beer would have been lost to taste, if not to sight. It w

wrong. It's only me and my mate, Wigg, who's on night duty here. Everything's as rig

ed by Constable Wigg, whose thirst was growing almos

. But how did

d Constable Nightingale, jo

own

of course we went with it, flat on our backs the pair of us. When we got on our feet again the wind was tearing so, and the snow was pelting down that

he was a pleasant-faced, round-bodied woman, some forty years of age, and she lo

door, and sor two men a-standing in my kitchen, I thought of

le Nightingale, "I don't suppose y

Middlemore, "I wouldn't turn a

igg, with his eyes on the cold p