fellow-passenger."

"He seems to have been a secretive sort of person," Sir Charles
remarked.

"He was that," Mr. Coulson admitted. "Never seemed to care to
talk about himself or his own business. Not that he had much to
talk about," he added reflectively. "Dull sort of life, his. So
many hours of work, so many hours of play; so many dollars a
month, and after it's all over, so many dollars pension. Wouldn't
suit all of us, Sir Charles, eh?"

"I fancy not," Somerfield admitted. "Perhaps he kicked over the
traces a bit when he was over this side. You Americans generally
seem to find your way about--in Paris, especially."

Mr. Coulson shook his head doubtfully.

"There wasn't much kicking over the traces with poor old Fynes,"
he said. "He hadn't got it in him."

Somerfield scratched his chin thoughtfully and looked at
Penelope.

"Scarcely seems possible, does it," he remarked, "that a man
leading such a quiet sort of life should make enemies."

"I don't believe he had any," Mr. Coulson asserted.

"He didn't seem nervous on the way over, did he?" Penelope