"Ought to do these little turns for one another, Wigg. The man who was on the beat before me gave me the office, and it's only friendly for me to give it to you." Constable Nightingale looked pensively over the shoulder of his brother constable, and added, "I behaved liberal to him." "I'll do likewise to you," said Constable Wigg, "if anything happens." "Was sure you would, Wigg," responded Constable Nightingale, briskly. "What would the force be worth if we didn't stick together? When I see Mr. Felix I'll put in a good word for you. He took a regular fancy to me, and told me if I got the beat again to come to him immediate. Once you see him, you can't miss knowing him. Tall and slim, with hair getting gray. No whiskers; only a mustache, curled. Speaks with a foreign accent--parleyvooish. His clothes fit like a glove. Patent leather boots always, except when he wears shoes; white tie generally. I remember Mrs. Middlemore----" "Who's she?" "His landlady. A most respectable woman--made of the right stuff. Ah, a real good sort she is! Goes out every night for her supper beer between eleven and twelve." "I must have seen her half an hour ago." "Of course you did. If it was to rain cats and dogs or snowed for a month, she wouldn't miss going. Has she come back?" "No." "She stops out as a rule till about this time; fond of a gossip, you know. Most of us are. She'll be here soon, if she can keep her feet. The snow's getting thicker--and listen to the wind! Let's get close to the door. Well, I remember Mrs. Middlemore coming out to me one night, and saying, 'You're wanted up there,' meaning in Mr. Felix's rooms----" Constable Wigg interposed. "Just now you said parleyvooish." "So I did, and so I meant." "Speaks with a foreign accent, you said." "I don't deny it." "And you keep on saying Mr. Felix." "Well?" "Shouldn't it be Monseer?" "Well, perhaps; but not Monseer--Monshure." "I give in to you, Nightingale; I'm not a French scholar." "Let's call him Mr., for all that. Monshure twists the tongue unless you're born there." "I'm agreeable. Call him Mr. if you like. Hallo!" The exclamation was caused by Mrs. Middlemore's street door being suddenly opened without any preliminary warning from within, and with such swiftness and violence that the policemen almost fell through it into the passage. As they were recovering their equilibrium a man stepped out of the house, or rather stumbled out of it, in a state of great excitement. He had a crimson scarf round his neck; it was loosely tied, and the ends floated in the wind. The little bit of color shone bright in the glare of white snow. Its wearer pulled the door after him and hurried along the street, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and taking no notice of the policemen, who strained their eyes after him. He walked very unsteadily, and was soon out of sight. CHAPTER II. THE SPECTRE CAT. "That's a rum start," said Constable Wigg. "Was it Mr. Felix?"