"Gents both," said Mrs. Middlemore, now thoroughly restored, "I looks toward yer." Whereupon they all drank, and settled themselves comfortably in their chairs. "What was in that cupboard," asked Mrs. Middlemore, "that your mother told you there was a ghost in?" "What was in it? Now, that shows how a body may be frightened at nothing. I didn't find it out till I was a man, and it was as much a ghost as I am. But there's a lady present, and I'd better not go on." "Yes, you must," said Mrs. Middlemore, positively. "You've made me that curious that I'll never speak another word to you if you don't tell me." "Rather than that should happen, I must let you into the secret, I suppose. But you won't mind me mentioning it?" "Not a bit, Mr. Nightingale. Speak free." "Well, if you must know, it was where she kept a spare bustle, and a bit or two of hair, and some other little vanities that she didn't want us young 'uns to pull about. There, the murder's out, and I wouldn't have mentioned the things if you hadn't been so curious; but it's a privilege of your sex, Mrs. Middlemore, one of your amiable weaknesses that we're bound to respect." Mrs. Middlemore laughed, and asked Constable Wigg what he was thinking of. That worthy had, indeed, put on his considering cap, as the saying is; he felt that Constable Nightingale was making the running too fast, and that he should be left hopelessly in the rear unless he made an attempt to assert himself, and to show that he knew a thing or two. "I was thinking of the red cat," he said. "Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, in a tone of reproof, "I'm astonished at you. When everything's been made smooth!" "For the moment, Nightingale, for the moment," said Constable Wigg, complacently. "But there's by and by to reckon with. It ain't to be expected that Mrs. Middlemore can have us always with her, though I'm sure I should ask for nothing better. What could a man want better than this? Outside snow and blow, inside wine and shine." "You're quite a poet, Mr. Wigg," said Mrs. Middlemore, admiringly. "I don't see it," grumbled Constable Nightingale; "where's the wine?" "If this," said Constable Wigg, raising his glass and looking at its contents with the eye of a connoisseur, "ain't as good as the best of wine, I stand corrected. Did you never hear of a poet's license, Nightingale?" He asked this question banteringly. "No, I didn't, and I don't believe you know where to get one, and what the Government charges for it." "I'm afraid, Nightingale," said Constable Wigg, beginning to feel the effects of the drink, "that you've no soul for poetry." "Never you mind whether I have or haven't," retorted Constable Nightingale. "Gents both," interposed Mrs. Middlemore, "whatever you do, don't fall out. You're as welcome as welcome can be, but don't fall out."