him take his pocketbook back from the purser, and I guess he'd
got a sight more money there than was found upon him. I told the
smooth-spoken gentleman from Scotland Yard so--Mr. Inspector
Jacks he called himself--when he came to see me an hour or so
ago."

Penelope sighed gently. She found it hard to make up her mind
concerning this quondam acquaintance of her deceased friend.

"Did you see much of Mr. Fynes on the other side, Mr. Coulson?"
she asked him.

"Not I," Mr. Coulson answered. "He wasn't particularly anxious to
make acquaintances over here, but he was even worse at home. The
way he went on, you'd think he'd never had any friends and never
wanted any. I met him once in the streets of Washington last
year, and had a cocktail with him at the Atlantic House. I had to
almost drag him in there. I was pretty well a stranger in
Washington, but he didn't do a thing for me. Never asked me to
look him up, or introduced me to his club. He just drank his
cocktail, mumbled something about being in a hurry, and made off.

"I tell you, sir," Mr. Coulson continued, turning to Somerfield,
"that man hadn't a thing to say for himself. I guess his work had
something to do with it. You must get kind of out of touch with
things, shut up in an office from nine o'clock in the morning
till five in the afternoon. Just saving up, he was, for his trip
to Europe. Then we happened on the same steamer, but, bless you,
he scarcely even shook hands when he saw me. He wouldn't play
bridge, didn't care about chess, hadn't even a chair on the deck,