The reporter sighed. He was, after all, a little disappointed.
Mr. Coulson was obviously a man of common sense. His words were
clearly pronounced, and his reasoning sound. They had reached the
courtyard of the hotel now, and the reporter began to express his
gratitude.

"My first drink on English soil," Mr. Coulson said, as he handed
his suitcase to the hall-porter, "is always--"

"It's on me," the young man declared quickly. "I owe you a good
deal more than drinks, Mr. Coulson."

"Well, come along, anyway," the latter remarked. "I guess my room
is all right, porter?"--turning to the man who stood by his side,
bag in hand. "I am Mr. James B. Coulson of New York, and I wrote
on ahead. I'll come round to the office and register presently."

They made their way to the American bar. The newspaper man and
his new friend drank together and, skillfully prompted by the
former, the conversation drifted back to the subject of Hamilton
Fynes. There was nothing else to be learned, however, in the way
of facts. Mr. Coulson admitted that he had been a little nettled
by his friend's odd manner during the voyage, and the strange way
he had of keeping to himself.

"But, after all," he wound up, "Fynes was a crank, when all's
said and done. We are all cranks, more or less,--all got our weak
spot, I mean. It was secretiveness with our unfortunate friend.
He liked to play at being a big personage in a mysterious sort of
way, and the poor chap's paid for it," he added with a sigh.