"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.