"But what are you going to do now?" asked Constable Wigg.
"To find the cat," replied Constable Nightingale.
"Going to take it up?" This, with a fine touch of sarcasm.
"No, Wigg," said Constable Nightingale, speaking very seriously. "I want to make sure where it got that red color from, because, not to put too fine a point on it, it's blood."
Mrs. Middlemore uttered a stifled scream, and clapped her hands on her hips.
"That," continued Constable Nightingale, in a tone of severity to his brother constable, "is what I had in my mind and you didn't have in yours. Why, if you look with only half an eye at them stains on the floor, you can't mistake 'em."
"Oh, dear, oh, dear," moaned Mrs. Middlemore, "we shall all be murdered in our beds?"
"Nothing of the sort, my dear," said Constable Nightingale; "we'll look after you. Pull yourself together, there's a good soul, and answer me one or two questions. I know that Mr. Felix comes home late sometimes."
"Very often, very often."
"And that, as well as being generous with his money, he likes his pleasures. Now, are you sure he was at home when you went out for your beer?"