Penelope’s eyes were suddenly upraised. For the first time Mr. Coulson’s ready answers failed him. Not a muscle of his face moved under the girl’s scrutiny, but he hesitated for a short time before he answered her. “Not that I know of,” he said at length. “No, I shouldn’t have called him much of a traveller.” Penelope rose to her feet and held out her hand. “It has been very nice indeed of you to see us, Mr. Coulson,” she said, “especially after all these other people have been bothering you. Of course, I am sorry that you haven’t anything more to tell us than we knew already. Still, I felt that I couldn’t rest until we had been.” “It’s a sad affair, anyhow,” Mr. Coulson declared, walking with them to the door. “Don’t you get worrying your head, young lady, though, with any notion of his having had enemies, or anything of that sort. The poor fellow was no hero of romance. I don’t fancy even your halfpenny papers could drag any out of his life. It was just a commonplace robbery, with a bad ending for poor Fynes. Good evening, miss! Good night, sir! Glad to have met you, Sir Charles.” Mr. Coulson’s two visitors left and got into a small electric brougham which was waiting for them. Mr. Coulson himself watched them drive off and glanced at the clock. It was already a quarter past six. He went into the cafe and ordered a light dinner, which he consumed with much obvious enjoyment. Then he lit a cigar and went into the smoking room. Selecting a pile of newspapers, he drew up an easy chair to the fire and made himself comfortable. “Seems to me I may have a longish wait,” he said to himself. As a matter of fact, he was disappointed. At precisely seven o’clock, Mr. Richard Vanderpole strolled into the room and, after a casual glance around, approached his chair and touched him on the shoulder. In his evening clothes the newcomer was no longer obtrusively American. He was dressed in severely English fashion, from the cut of his white waistcoat to the admirable poise of his white tie. He smiled as he patted Coulson upon the shoulder. “This is Mr. Coulson, I’m sure,” he declared,--“Mr. James B. Coulson from New York?” “You’re dead right,” Mr. Coulson admitted, laying down his newspaper and favoring his visitor with a quick upward glance. “This is great!” the young man continued. “Just off the boat, eh? Well, I am glad to see you,--very glad indeed to make your acquaintance, I should say.” Mr. Coulson replied in similar terms. A waiter who was passing through the room hesitated, for it was a greeting which generally ended in a summons for him. “What shall it be?” the newcomer asked. “I’ve just taken dinner,” Mr. Coulson said. “Coffee and cognac’ll do me all right.” “And a Martini cocktail for me,” the young man ordered. “I am dining down in the restaurant with some friends later on. Come over to this corner, Mr. Coulson. Why, you’re looking first-rate. Great boat, the Lusitania, isn’t she? What sort of a trip did you have?”