Kenyon looked down at the bent old woman who was peering up at him in a dim-eyed, uncertain sort of way.
“I desire to speak to”—he hesitated a moment, then proceeded—“to the master or mistress of the house.”
“Have I not told you a dozen times that the house is empty? Are the police paid to annoy people? I know nothing of those who were here; I know nothing of the dead man who was carried out in the night; I know nothing except that the agent placed me in charge this afternoon, and that the rent is fifty dollars a week, furnished. For anything else you must not ask me; I am old, and I must have my sleep.”
And with that she went slowly and complainingly down the steps, and they heard the door close abruptly behind her.
“They have gone,” said Kenyon.
“And apparently the attention of the police has been called to some features of the case.” Webster looked at his friend for a moment and then added. “What are you going to do now?”
“Perhaps to see Moritze & Co.’s local representative, in the morning, would do some good. But, first, I think we may get a little information from our friend across the way.”
They descended the steps and crossed the street toward the policeman. The man regarded them with attention, his thumbs in his belt and his legs very wide apart.
“How do you do?” spoke Kenyon, in a fraternal tone.
“How are you?” answered the man.