Constable Nightingale smiled knowingly, and said, "Cold pork and pickles ain't half a bad supper, to say nothing of sausages, roast fowl, and----and----." He sniffed intelligently and inquired, "Ain't there a baked tatery smell somewheres near?" "Now you mention it," replied Constable Wigg, also sniffing, "I believe there is." "And here they are, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, opening the door of the oven, and exposing four large, flowery potatoes baking in their skins. "Not yet quite done, not yet quite ready to burst, and all a-growing and a-blowing, and waiting for butter and pepper. They're relishy enough without butter and pepper, but with butter and pepper they're a feast for a emperor." "Ah," sighed Constable Wigg, "it's better to be born lucky than rich. Now just cast your eye at the door, Nightingale. I'm blessed if that beastly cat ain't poking its nose in again." And as though there 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. "What riles me about that cat is that it moves about like a ghost, without as much as a whine. It takes you all of a sudden, like a stab in the back. It'll be up to some mischief before the night is out." "Why, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, with a laugh, "you talk of it as if it wasn't a cat at all." "I don't believe it is. In my opinion it's a spectre cat, a spirit without a solid body. I lifted it with my foot in the street, and 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 head, and off it went like a shadder, without a whine. It ain't natural. If it comes across me again I advise it to say its prayers." Which, to say the least of it, was an absurd recommendation to offer to a cat. But Constable Wigg was in an unreasonable and spiteful temper, and he became morose and melancholy when he saw how thoroughly Constable 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 was, he was not allowed much time for gloomy reflection, his thoughts being diverted by the violent slamming of the street door, and by the further sound of a person breathing heavily in her course downstairs. "It's Mrs. Middlemore," said Constable Nightingale, in a low tone. "I never thought she'd be able to open the door alone with such a wind blowing. We'll give her a surprise."