“Come in,” she said, and Larry entered the squalid apartment.
“You was looking for this Italian boy, yes?”
“I am!” cried Larry. “Tell me quickly, have you seen him? Was he here?”
“Sure he was here, but he has went.”
“Gone? When?”
“Two days ago. I am sure he is the one what you is wantin’. He was a quiet little feller an’ he was much afraid of the young mans who had him. The little feller, he cry lots. I hear him in the nights, but I dast not do anything. I am afraid. I am afraid efen now to speak mit you, but if you are a detective, you know—you will not let harm come. But he is gone, that little feller, an’ the ones who had him.”
“Where have they gone?” exclaimed Larry.
“I doan’t know.”
“Where were they? In here?”
“No; but you should listen. There is two back rooms on this floor that are not in with mine. They rent separate. Comes here some time ago a boy and two young mans. The boy is sick, I t’ink. He says nothing. I see them go in the back rooms, for the agent of the house leaves mit me the keys yet. I open the rooms for them. I say to one of them: ‘That your boy, mister?’ What he say? Ha! He say to me to keep still, an’ not bodder him. I keep still, but now they are gone, I speak. I am sure something is wrong.”