European language better than
his courier. This time the poor fellow's paid for his bit of vanity.
Naturally, any one would think he was a millionaire, travelling like
that. I guess they boarded the train somehow, or lay hidden in it when
it started, and relieved him of a good bit of his savings."

"But his money was found upon him," Somerfield objected.

"Some of it," Mr. Coulson answered,--"some of it. That's just about
the only thing that I do know of my own. I happened to see him take his
pocketbook back from the purser, and I guess he'd got a sight more money
there than was found upon him. I told the smooth-spoken gentleman from
Scotland Yard so--Mr. Inspector Jacks he called himself--when he came to
see me an hour or so ago."

Penelope sighed gently. She found it hard to make up her mind concerning
this quondam acquaintance of her deceased friend.

"Did you see much of Mr. Fynes on the other side, Mr. Coulson?" she
asked him.

"Not I," Mr. Coulson answered. "He wasn't particularly anxious to make
acquaintances over here, but he was even worse at home. The way he went
on, you'd think he'd never had any friends and never wanted any. I met
him once in the streets of Washington last year, and had a cocktail
with him at the Atlantic House. I had to almost drag him in there. I was
pretty well a stranger in Washington, but he didn't do a thing for me.
Never asked me to look him up, or introduced me to his club. He just
drank his cocktail, mumbled something about being in a hurry, and made
off.

"I tell you, sir," Mr. Coulson continued, turning to Somerfield, "that
man hadn't a thing to say for himself. I guess his work had something to
do with it. You must get kind of out of touch with things, shut up in an
office from nine o'clock in the morning till five in the afternoon. Just
saving up, he was, for his trip to Europe. Then we happened on the same
steamer, but, bless you, he scarcely even shook hands when he saw me.
He wouldn't play bridge, didn't care about chess, hadn't even a chair on
the deck, and never came in to meals."

Penelope nodded her head thoughtfully.

"You are destroying all my illusions, Mr. Coulson," she said. "Do you
know that I was building up quite a romance about poor Mr. Fynes' life?
It seemed to me that he must have enemies; that there must have been
something in his life, or his manner of living, which accounted for such
a terrible crime."

"Why, sure not!" Mr. Coulson declared heart