“The Press Association have cabled to America, but no one seems to be able to make out exactly who the fellow is. His letter to the captain of the steamer was from the chairman of the company, and his introduction to the manager of the London and North Western Railway Company was from the greatest railway man in the world. Mr. Hamilton Fynes must have been a person who had a pretty considerable pull over there. Curiously enough, though, only the name of the man was mentioned in them; nothing about his business, or what he was doing over on this side. He was simply alluded to as ‘Mr. Hamilton Fynes--the gentleman bearing this communication.’ I expect, after all, that you know more about him than any one.” She shook her head. “What I know,” she said, “or at least most of it, I am going to tell you. A few years ago he was a clerk in a Government office in Washington. He was steady in those days, and was supposed to have a head. He used to write me occasionally. One day he turned up in London quite unexpectedly. He said that he had come on business, and whatever his business was, it took him to St. Petersburg and Berlin, and then back to Berlin again. I saw quite a good deal of him that trip.” “The dickens you did!” he muttered. Miss Penelope Morse laughed softly. “Come, Dicky,” she said, “don’t pretend to be jealous. You’re an outrageous flirt, I know, but you and I are never likely to get sentimental about one another.” “Why not?” he grumbled. “We’ve always been pretty good pals, haven’t we?” “Naturally,” she answered, “or I shouldn’t be here. Do you want to hear anything more about Mr. Hamilton Fynes?” “Of course I do,” he declared. “Well, be quiet, then, and don’t interrupt,” she said. “I knew London well and he didn’t. That is why, as I told you before, we saw quite a great deal of one another. He was always very reticent about his affairs, and especially about the business which had taken him on the Continent. Just before he left, however, he gave me--well, a hint.” “What was it?” the young man asked eagerly. She hesitated. “He didn’t put it into so many words,” she said, “and I am not sure, even now, that I ought to tell you, Dicky. Still, you are a fellow countryman and a budding diplomatist. I suppose if I can give you a lift I ought to.” The taxi was on the Embankment now, and they sped along for some time in silence. Mr. Richard Vanderpole was more than a little puzzled. “Of course, Penelope,” he said, “I don’t expect you to tell me anything which you feel that you oughtn’t to. There is one thing, however, which I must ask you.” She nodded. “Well?” “I should like to know what the mischief my being in the diplomatic service has to do with it?” “If I explained that,” she answered, “I should be telling you everything I haven’t quite made up my mind to do that yet.” “Tell me this?” he asked. “Would that hint which he dropped when he was here last help you to solve the mystery of his murder?” “It might,” she admitted.