But that fellow," and he shook a remonstrating finger at
the door of the lodging-house, "thinks himself better'n other people.
And mind you," with a leer, "maybe he's not as good."
"Who do you mean--the Dago?" asked the machinist.
"No; I mean Crawford. A salesman, eh?" The speaker made a gesture as
though pushing something from him with contempt. "Fudge! Travels, does
he? Rot! He can't fool me. And then," with energy, "what did he used
to do so much in Spatola's garret, eh? What did they talk about so
much on the quiet? I ain't saying nothing about nobody, mind you. I'm
a gentleman. My name's Hertz. I don't want to get nobody into trouble.
But if Crawford was such a swell as not to want to speak to a
gentleman in public, why did he hold so many pow-wows in private with
Spatola? That's what I want to know."
Seeing that the man's befogged intellect would be likely to carry him
on in this strain for an indefinite time, Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton
were about to move on. But they had not gone more than a few yards
when the investigator paused as though struck with an idea. He stepped
back once more and drew a photograph from his pocket.
"Do you know who this is?" he asked, abruptly, holding it up.
The unwieldy man swayed gently and waveringly regarded the portrait.
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