“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 heartily. “It was a cleverly worked job, but there was no mystery about it. Some chap went for him because he got riding about like a millionaire. A more unromantic figure than Hamilton Fynes never breathed. Call him a crank and you’ve finished with him.” Penelope sighed once more and looked at the tips of her patent shoes. “It has been so kind of you,” she murmured, “to talk to us. And yet, do you know, I am a little disappointed. I was hoping that you might have been able to tell us something more about the poor fellow.” “He was no talker,” Mr. Coulson declared. “It was little enough he had to say to me, and less to any one else.” “It seems strange,” she remarked innocently, “that he should have been so shy. He didn’t strike me that way when I knew him at home in Massachusetts, you know. He travelled about so much in later years, too, didn’t he?”