The big foreigner was very ill at ease. He shuffled about, and when told where to sit, he dropped into the chair with his stolid countenance expressing an awed fear.
The woman was more composed, but seemed overwhelmed at the unaccustomed splendor of her surroundings. She gazed at the pictures and statues with round, wide eyes, and glanced timidly at Avice, as if the girl might resent her presence there.
“What is your name?” asked Berg of the big Swede.
“Clem Sandstrom, Ay bane a Swede, but Ay bane by America already two years.”
“Where do you live and what do you do?”
“Ay live up in the Bronnix, and Ay work at the digging.”
“Digging? Where?”
“Any digging Ay can get. Ay bane good digger.”
“Well, never mind the quality of your digging. What do you know of this murder of Mr. Trowbridge?”
“Last night, Ay bane goon home, through Van Coortlandt Park wood, and Ay heerd a man groan like he was dying. Ay went to him, and Ay lift his head, but he was nigh about gone then. Ay try to hold up his head, but it drop back and he say, a few words and he fall back dead.”