"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."