A welcome diversion occurred to the constable who was stamping his feet within the portal of Mrs. Middlemore's street door. A brother constable sauntered up, and accosted him.
"As much as there's left of me," replied Constable Wigg.
"You may well say that," observed the new-comer, who rejoiced in the name of Nightingale. "It's all a job to keep one's self together. What a night!"
"Bitter. I've been regularly blown off my feet."
"My case. I'm froze to a stone. The North Pole ain't in it with this, and whether I've got a nose on my face is more than I'd swear to. Anything up?"
"Except what?" asked Constable Nightingale, as his comrade paused. He put his hand to his nose as he asked the question, his reference to it having inspired doubts as to his being still in possession of the feature.
"A minute or two ago," said Constable Wigg, "I had half a fancy that I heard somebody cry out 'Help!'"
"Who could be sure of anything," remarked Constable Nightingale, charitably, "on such a night?"
"Not a doubt of it. If anybody told me he saw Polar bears about I shouldn't dispute with him." Then Constable Nightingale took a step forward, and glanced up at the windows of the front rooms occupied by M. Felix, in which shone a perfect blaze of light. "He must be jolly warm up there."
"Who?" inquired Constable Wigg, his eyes following his comrade's glance.
"Why, you don't mean to say you don't know him!"
"Never heard of him. I've only been on the beat two nights."
"I forgot. He's a trump, a regular A-one-er. You're in for a good tip or two. I was on night duty here this time last year, and he behaved handsome. Tipped me at Christmas, and tipped me at New Year's. Half a sov. each time. And at other times, too. Altogether he was as good as between four and five pounds to me while I was here."
"That's something like," said Constable Wigg, with something of eager hope in his voice; "not many like him knocking around. But"--with sudden suspicion--"why should he be so free? Anything wrong about him?"
"Not a bit of it," replied Constable Nightingale, blowing on his ice-cold fingers. "He's a diamond of the first water--a tip-top swell, rolling in money. That's what's the matter with Mr. Felix. Don't you wish you had the same complaint? 'Constable,' said he to me, when I came on this beat last year, 'you're on night duty here, eh?' 'Yes, sir,' I answers. 'Very good,' he says, acting like a gentleman; 'I live in this house'--we were standing at this very door--'and I always make it a point to look after them as looks after me.'"