the sort upon him when he was found."

The Inspector made a note of this.

"You believe yourself, then, Mr. Coulson," he said, closing his
pocketbook, "that the murder was committed for the purpose of
robbery?"

"Seems to me it's common sense," Mr. Coulson replied. "A man who
goes and takes a special train to London from the docks of a city
like Liverpool--a city filled with the scum of the world, mind
you--kind of gives himself away as a man worth robbing, doesn't
he?"

The Inspector nodded.

"That's sensible talk, Mr. Coulson," he acknowledged. "You never
heard, I suppose, of his having had a quarrel with any one?"

"Never in my life," Mr. Coulson declared. "He wasn't the sort to
make enemies, any more than he was the sort to make friends."

The Inspector took up his hat. His manner now was no longer
inquisitorial. With the closing of his notebook a new geniality
had taken the place of his official stiffness.

"You are making a long stay here, Mr. Coulson?" he asked.

"A week or so, maybe," that gentleman answered. "I am in the
machinery patent line--machinery for the manufacture of woollen