"I checked what I had through from Liverpool to the hotel," Mr.
Coulson answered. "I can't stand being fussed around by all these
porters, and having to go and take pot luck amongst a pile of
other people's baggage. We'll just take one of these two-wheeled
sardine tins that you people call hansoms, and get round to the
hotel as quick as we can. There are a few pals of mine generally
lunch in the cafe there, and they mayn't all have cleared out if
we look alive."

They started a moment or two later. Mr. Coulson leaned forward
and, folding his arms upon the apron of the cab, looked about him
with interest.

"Say," he remarked, removing his cigar to the corner of his mouth
in order to facilitate conversation, "this old city of yours
don't change any."

"Not up in this part, perhaps," the reporter agreed. "We've some
fine new buildings down toward the Strand."

Mr. Coulson nodded.

"Well," he said, "I guess you don't want to be making
conversation. You want to know about Hamilton Fynes. I was just
acquainted with him, and that's a fact, but I reckon you'll have
to find some one who knows a good deal more than I do before
you'll get the stuff you want for your paper."

"The slightest particulars are of interest to us just now," the
reporter reminded him.