“I have rooms for nine.  Just now there are seven.  But only four are steadies—­Mr. Hertz, Mr. Crawford, Mr. Sagon and Mr. Spatola.  Mr. Hertz is an inspector of the people who canvass for the city directory; he took the parlor after Mr. Spatola gave it up.  He drinks a little, but he’s a perfect gentleman for all that.  Mr. Crawford is a traveling man, and is seldom home; but he pays in advance, so I don’t never worry about him.  Mr. Sagon is what they call an expert.  He can’t speak much English yet, but sometimes even the government,” in an awed tone, “sends for him to come to the customs house to tell them how much diamonds are worth, that people bring in.  He works for Baum Brothers and Wright.  The others,” bulking them as being of no consequence, “are all gentlemen who are employed on the directory under Mr. Hertz.”

“Have you any Italian lodgers other than Mr. Spatola?”

The woman shook her head.

“No,” she said, “and I don’t want none, if this is the way they carry on.”

“Are there any other rooming houses in the street?”

“No, sir.  It’s only a block long, and I know every house in it.  I’m the only one as takes lodgers.”

“Are there any Italians in business in the block, or employed in any of the business places?”

Mrs. Marx again shook her head positively.

“Not any.”

“You speak of a Mr. Sagon.  Of what nationality is he?”

“Oh, he’s French, but he’s lived a long time in Antwerp.  That’s where he learned the diamond business.  And he must have lived in other places in Europe; Mr. Spatola says he has spoken of them often.”

Just then there came from below the sound of a heavy voice, singing.  The words were French and the intonation here and there was strange to Ashton-Kirk.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“It’s Mr. Sagon,” replied the woman.  “He’s the greatest one for singing them little French songs.”

“Ah, I have it,” said Ashton-Kirk, after a moment.  “He’s a Basque, of course.  I couldn’t place that accent at first.”

A narrow, ladder-like flight of stairs was upon one side.  Ashton-Kirk mounted these and found himself in a smaller loft; a number of well-kept cockatoos, in cages, set up a harsh screaming at sight of him.  Opening a low door he stepped out upon a tin roof.  Mrs. Marx and Pendleton had followed him, and the former said: 

“The police was up here looking.  They said Mr. Spatola came through the trap-door at Hume’s place that night and walked along the roofs and so down to his own room.”

“That would he very easily done,” answered Ashton-Kirk, as his eye took in the level stretch of roofs.

After a little more questioning to make sure that the landlady had missed nothing, they thanked her and left the house.  At his door they saw the man in the cloth cap and overalls.  A second and very unwieldy man, with a flushed, unhealthy looking face, had just stopped to speak to him.