The Mystery of M. Felix. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

said Constable Wigg.

      "It would be madness to go out," said Constable Nightingale. "We should be dashed to pieces. Besides, what good could we do? Besides, who would be likely to want us? Besides, who's to know?"

* * * * * *

      There was a world of philosophy in these reflections, which Constable Wigg was only too ready to acknowledge.

      "What do you propose, Nightingale?" he asked.

      "That we go down to Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen," replied Constable Nightingale, "and make ourselves comfortable. I know the way."

      He led it, and Constable Wigg very cheerfully accompanied him. The kitchen was the coziest of apartments, and their hearts warmed within them as they entered it. 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 to cause it to spring into a bright glowing blaze. This touch was applied by Constable Nightingale, and the shadows upon walls and ceiling leapt into ruddy life.

      "This is something like," said Constable Wigg, stooping and warming himself.

      Having no further need for his dark lantern, Constable Nightingale tucked it snugly away, and then proceeded to light a candle which, in its flat tin candlestick and a box of matches handy, stood on the kitchen table. They were not the only articles on the table. There was no table-cloth, it is true, but what mattered that? The 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 of cold pork. Constable Wigg's eyes wandered to the table, and became, so to speak, glued there. He was now standing with his back to the fire, and was being comfortably warmed through. Even a kitchen may become a veritable Aladdin's cave, and this was the case with Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen, in the estimation of Constable Wigg.

      "If there's one thing I like better than another for supper," he said, meditatively, and with pathos in his voice, "it is cold pork and pickles. And there's enough for three, Nightingale, there's enough for three."

      Constable Nightingale nodded genially, and, with the air of a man familiar with his surroundings, took up a piece of butter on a knife, and put it to his mouth.

      "The best fresh," he observed.

      "You don't say so?" exclaimed Constable Wigg, not contentiously, but in amiable wonder.

      "Taste it," said Constable Nightingale, handing his comrade the knife with a new knob of butter on it.

      "It is the best fresh," said Constable Wigg. "She lives on the fat of the land." This evidence of good living and the cheerful homeliness of the kitchen strengthened his notion of supplanting Constable Nightingale in the affections of Mrs. Middlemore, but he was careful not to betray himself. "You know your way about, Nightingale. It ain't the first time you've been in this here snuggery."

      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."

      They heard Mrs. Middlemore stop outside the kitchen, and exclaim, "Well! To think I should 'ave been so foolish as to leave the candle alight! I could 'ave swore I blowed it out before I left the room!" Then she opened the 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 was as well, too, that he put his face close enough to her lips to partially stifle a kind of a hysterical gurgle which was escaping therefrom. It was, however, a proceeding of which Constable Wigg did not inwardly approve.

      "Pluck up, Mrs. Middlemore," said Constable Nightingale, cheerily, "there's nothing wrong. It's only me and my mate, Wigg, who's on night duty here. Everything's as right as a fiddle. Take a pull at the beer-a long pull. Now you feel better, don't you?"

      Mrs. Middlemore-her movements being enviously watched by Constable Wigg, whose thirst was growing almost unbearable-removed her lips from the jug, and said:

      "Ever so much. But how did you get in?"

      "Didn't get in at all," said Constable Nightingale, jocosely; "we were blown in."

      "Blown in!"

      "Yes, my dear. We was standing outside, Wigg and me, leaning against the door, when the wind come like a clap of thunder, and blew it clean open, and 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 fierce, that I thought we might venture to take a liberty, and we come down here to warm ourselves. And that's the long and the short of it, my dear."

      He still had his arm round Mrs. Middlemore's waist, and now he gave her a hug. She was a pleasant-faced, round-bodied woman, some forty years of age, and she looked up smilingly as the constable-her favorite constable-hugged her, and said,

      "Well, now, I declare you did startle me. When I opened the door, and sor two men a-standing in my kitchen, I thought of burglars, and you might 'ave knocked me down with a feather.

      "And now we're here," said Constable Nightingale, "I don't suppose you'd have the heart to turn us out."

      "Turn you out!" exclaimed Mrs. Middlemore, "I wouldn't turn a cat out on such a night as this!"

      "More cats," thought Constable Wigg, with his eyes on the cold pork and pickles.

      CHAPTER III.

      A THRILLING INCIDENT

      "The wonder is," said Constable Nightingale, while Mrs. Middlemore shook the snow out of her clothes, "how you had the courage to venture out in such weather."

      "It's 'abit, Mr. Nightingale, that's what it is. Once I get to doing a thing regular, done it must be if