The Inspector leaned back in his chair. It was a very pleasant drawing room, looking out upon the Park. A little French clock, a masterpiece of workmanship, was ticking gayly upon the mantelpiece. Two toy Pomeranians were half hidden in the great rug. The walls were of light blue, soft, yet full of color, and the carpet, of some plain material, was of the same shade. The perfume of flowers--the faint sweetness of mimosa and the sicklier fragrance of hyacinths--seemed almost overwhelming, for the fire was warm and the windows closed. By the side of Penelope’s chair were a new novel and a couple of illustrated papers, and Mr. Jacks noticed that although a paper cutter was lying by their side the leaves of all were uncut. “These questions,” he said, “may seem to you irrelevant, yet please answer them if you can. Mr. Hamilton Fynes, for instance,--was he, to your knowledge, acquainted with Mr. Richard Vanderpole?” “I have never heard them speak of one another,” Penelope answered. “I should think it very unlikely.” “You have no knowledge of any common pursuit or interest in life which the two men may have shared?” the Inspector asked. “A hobby, for instance,--a collection of postage stamps, china, any common aim of any sort?” She shook her head. “I knew little of Mr. Fynes’ tastes. Dicky--I mean Mr. Vanderpole--had none at all except an enthusiasm for his profession and a love of polo.” “His profession,” the Inspector repeated. “Mr. Vanderpole was attached to the American Embassy, was he not?” “I believe so,” Penelope answered. “Mr. Hamilton Fynes,” the Inspector continued, “might almost have been said to have followed the same occupation.” “Surely not!” Penelope objected. “I always understood that Mr. Fynes was employed in a Government office at Washington,--something to do with the Customs, I thought, or forest duties.” Mr. Jacks nodded thoughtfully. “I am not aware, as yet,” he said, “of the precise nature of Mr. Fynes’ occupation. I only knew that it was, in some shape or form, Government work.” “You know as much about it,” she answered, “as I do.” “We have sent,” the Inspector continued smoothly, “a special man out to Washington to make all inquiries that are possible on the spot, and incidentally, to go through the effects of the deceased, with a view to tracing any complications in which he may have been involved in this country.” Penelope opened her lips, but closed them again. “I am not, however,” the Inspector continued, “very sanguine of success. In the case of Mr. Vanderpole, for instance, there could have been nothing of the sort. He was too young, altogether too much of a boy, to have had enemies so bitterly disposed towards him. There is another explanation somewhere, I feel convinced, at the root of the matter.” “You do not believe, then,” asked Penelope, “that robbery was really the motive?”