"What do you want?" she demanded, shrilly.
Ashton-Kirk, followed by Pendleton, stepped inside and advanced down
the entry.
"Are you Mrs. Marx?" he inquired.
"Yes," snapped the woman. "What do you want?"
"A little information."
"You're a reporter!" accused the sharp-faced woman. "And let me tell
you that I don't want nothing more to say to no reporters."
But Ashton-Kirk soothingly denied the accusation.
"I dare say you've been bothered to death by newspaper men," spoke he.
"But we assure you that--"
"It don't make no difference," stated the woman, rearing her head
until her long chin pointed straight at them. "I ain't got nothing to
say to nobody. I don't want to get into no trouble."
"The only way you can possibly get into trouble in this matter," said
the investigator, "is to conceal what you know. An attempt to hide
facts is always considered by the police as a sort of admission of
complicity."
The woman at this lifted a corner of a soiled apron and applied it to
her eyes.
"Things is come to a nice pass," she said, vainly endeavoring to
squeeze a tear from eyes to which such things had long been strangers,
"when a respectable woman can't mind her own business in her own
house.
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