"Mr. Schwartz," he said in low tones, "I have come to see you about a very unpleasant business."
The German turned paler even than he was, and his hand shook as he tried to light a cigar. "Ach! Is dat zo?"
"It is about Moxton's murder."
"Veil, veil, what apout ze murder?" queried Schwartz, impatiently.
"I should rather put that question to you, Schwartz. Why was Moxton murdered--or rather, why was he got out of the way?"
Instead of answering his question, Schwartz, in a tremor of nervous excitement, rose and locked the door. "Can you speak German?" he asked, in his own tongue, on returning to his seat.
"A little. I can speak it slowly."
"Then put your questions in that language," said Schwartz, savagely. "I can see that you have come to accuse me of being mixed up in this crime. Was it for this purpose that you called at my house?"
"You forget. I called, at your request, to see Miss Garret."
Schwartz sighed. "Ach! the liddle Hilda," he said in English; then slipping back into his own tongue, he demanded what Ellis wished to know.