ors. The consequence was that when he asked a queer
one he got it all right. It's easier to get a pull over there than it is
here, you know."

"This is all very interesting," the reporter said, "and I am sure I'm
very much obliged to you, Mr. Coulson. Now can you tell me of anything
in the man's life or way of living likely to provoke enmity on the part
of any one? This murder was such a cold-blooded affair."

"There I'm stuck," Mr. Coulson admitted. "There's only one thing I can
tell you, and that is that I believe he had a lot more money on him than
the amount mentioned in your newspapers this morning. My own opinion is
that he was murdered for what he'd got. A smart thief would say that a
fellow who takes a special tug off the steamer and a special train
to town was a man worth robbing. How the thing was done I don't
know--that's for your police to find out--but I reckon that whoever
killed him did it for his cash."

The reporter sighed. He was, after all, a little disappointed. Mr.
Coulson was obviously a man of common sense. His words were clearly
pronounced, and his reasoning sound. They had reached the courtyard of
the hotel now, and the reporter began to express his gratitude.

"My first drink on English soil," Mr. Coulson said, as he handed his
suitcase to the hall-porter, "is always--"

"It's on me," the young man declared quickly. "I owe you a good deal
more than drinks, Mr. Coulson."

"Well, come along, anyway," the latter remarked. "I guess my room is all
right, porter?"--turning to the man who stood by his side, bag in hand.
"I am Mr. James B. Coulson of New York, and I wrote on ahead. I'll come
round to the office and register presently."

They made their way to the American bar. The newspaper man and his
new friend drank together and, skillfully prompted by the former, the
conversation drifted back to the subject of Hamilton Fynes. There was
nothing else to be learned, however, in the way of facts. Mr. Coulson
admitted that he had been a little nettled by his friend's odd manner
during the voyage, and the strange way he had of keeping to himself.

"But, after all," he wound up, "Fynes was a crank, when all's said and
done. We are all cranks, more or less,--all got our weak spot, I mean.
It was secretiveness with our unfortunate friend. He liked to play at
being a big personage in a mysterious sort of way, and the poor chap's
paid for it," he added with a sigh.

The reporter left his new-made fr