He supported himself with one hand on the wall.

“Hello!” called the machinist to Ashton-Kirk; and as the two approached him, he said to the unwieldy man:  “I stopped you to tell you these gents had gone in.  They’re detectives.”

“Oh,” said the man, with interest in his wavering eye.  “That so.”  He regarded the two young men uncertainly for a moment; and then asked:  “Did Mrs. Marx tell you anything?”

“She didn’t seem to know much,” answered the investigator.

The unwieldy man swayed to and fro, an expression of cunning gathering in his face.  The machinist winked and whispered to Pendleton: 

“I don’t know his name, but he’s one of the lodgers.”

“Marx,” declared the unwieldy man, “is a fine lady.  But,” with an elaborate wink, “she knows more’n she tells sometimes.”  The wavering eye tried to fix the investigator, but failed signally.  “It don’t do,” he added wisely, “to tell everything you know.”

Ashton-Kirk agreed to this.

“Marx could tell you something, maybe,” said the man.  “And then maybe she couldn’t.  But, I know I could give you a few hints if I had the mind—­and maybe they’d be valuable hints, too.”  Here he drew himself up with much dignity and attempted to throw out his chest.  “I’m a gentleman,” he declared.  “My name’s Hertz.  And being a gentleman, I always try and conduct myself like one.  But that’s more’n some other people in Marx’s household does.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, sir.  When a gentleman tries to be friendly, I meets him half-way.  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.

“Sure!” said he surprisedly, “it’s Crawford.”