“Not yet,” the Inspector admitted. “To tell you the truth, we find it almost as puzzling an affair as the one in which Mr. Hamilton Fynes was concerned.” Mr. Coulson nodded. He seemed content, at this stage in their conversation, to assume the role of listener. “You read the particulars of the murder of Mr. Vanderpole, I suppose?” the Inspector asked. “Every word,” Mr. Coulson answered. “Most interesting thing I’ve seen in an English newspaper since I landed. Didn’t sound like London somehow. Gray old law-abiding place, my partner always calls it.” “I am going to be quite frank with you, Mr. Coulson,” the Inspector continued. “I am going to tell you exactly why I have come to see you again tonight.” “Why, that’s good,” Mr. Coulson declared. “I like to know everything a man’s got in his mind.” “I have come to you,” the Inspector said, “because, by a somewhat curious coincidence, I find that, besides your slight acquaintance with and knowledge of Mr. Hamilton Fynes, you were also acquainted with this Mr. Richard Vanderpole,--that you were,” he continued, knocking the ash off his cigar and speaking a little more slowly, “the last person, except the driver of the taxicab, to have seen him alive.” Mr. Coulson turned slowly around and faced his companion. “Now, how the devil do you know that?” he asked. The Inspector smiled tolerantly. “Well,” he said, “that is very simple. The taxicab started from here. Mr. Vanderpole had been visiting some one in the hotel. There was not the slightest difficulty in ascertaining that the person for whom he asked, and with whom he spent some twenty minutes in this very room, was Mr. James B. Coulson of New York.” “Seated on this very couch, sir!” Mr. Coulson declared, striking the arm of it with the flat of his hand,--“seated within a few feet of where you yourself are at this present moment.” The Inspector nodded. “Naturally,” he continued, “when I became aware of so singular an occurrence, I felt that I must lose no time in coming and having a few more words with you.” Mr. Coulson became meditative. “Upon my word, when you come to think of it,” he said, “it is a coincidence, sure! Two men murdered within twenty-four hours, and I seem to have been the last person who knew them, to speak to either. Tell you what, Mr. Jacks, if this goes on I shall get a bit scared. I think I shall let the London business alone and go on over to Paris.” The Inspector smiled. “I fancy your nerves,” he remarked, “are quite strong enough to bear the strain. However, I am sure you will not mind telling me exactly why Mr. Richard Vanderpole, Secretary to the American Embassy here, should have come to see you on Thursday night.”