"Bur-r-r," says Monsieur Judas, blowing on his lean fingers, "it is to me the most coldness of times. Aha! le brouillard! it makes itself to be all the places to-day."
"Seasonable, seasonable!" murmurs Mr. Wosk, washing his hands in a contemplative fashion. "Good for—ahem!—good for business—that is, business in our line—ahem!"
"Eh, Monsieur Vosks! mais oui, mon ami," answered the Frenchman, raising his eyebrows, "and for de—what you call de coffins man. L'homme des funerailles."
"That, ahem!" said Mr. Wosk, with his rasping cough, "is what we must try and prevent. The undertaker—not coffins man, Monsieur Judas, that is not—ahem—correct Anglo-Saxon—is the last, the very last resource of a sick man. Prevention—ahem—in the person of ourselves is better than—ahem—dear me—I don't think the remark is app—ahem—applicable."
At this moment the glass doors opened to admit a stranger, enveloped in a comfortable fur coat, and also gave admission to a cloud of fog that had been waiting for the opportunity for some time. The stranger made his appearance like a Homeric deity, in a cloudy fashion, and when the attendant fog dispersed, Monsieur Judas (inquisitive) and Mr. Wosk (mournfully indifferent) saw that he was a keen-faced young gentleman with a sharp, decisive manner.
"Wosk & Co., eh!" queried the stranger, who was none other than Mr. Octavius Fanks.
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Wosk, advancing, "the name—ahem—my name, sir, is in front of the—the shop, sir."
"So is the fog," replied the detective, drily, leaning over the counter. "I could hardly see the shop, much less the name."
"De fog is still heavier, monsieur?" said Judas, taking in the appearance of Mr. Fanks in a comprehensive fashion.
Octavius swung sharply round at the sound of the foreign voice, and instantly took an intuitive dislike to the appearance of the red-haired young man.