"Guess I can figure them out pretty well," Mr. Coulson remarked
with a smile. "We've got an evening press of our own in New
York."

The reporter nodded.

"Well," he said, "They'd be able to stretch themselves out a bit
on a case like this. You see," he continued confidentially, "we
are up against something almost unique. Here is an astounding and
absolutely inexplicable murder, committed in a most dastardly
fashion by a person who appears to have vanished from the face of
the earth. Not a single thing is known about the victim except
his name. We do not know whether he came to England on business
or pleasure. He may, in short, have been any one from a
millionaire to a newspaper man. Judging from his special train,"
the reporter concluded with a smile, "and the money which was
found upon him, I imagine that he was certainly not the latter."

Mr. Coulson went on his way toward the exit from the station,
puffing contentedly at his big cigar.

"Well," he said to his companion, who showed not the slightest
disposition to leave his side, "it don't seem to me that there's
much worth repeating about poor Fynes,--much that I knew, at any
rate. Still, if you like to get in a cab with me and ride as far
as the Savoy, I'll tell you what I can."

"You are a brick, sir," the young man declared. "Haven't you any
luggage, though?"