and never came in to meals."

Penelope nodded her head thoughtfully.

"You are destroying all my illusions, Mr. Coulson," she said. "Do
you know that I was building up quite a romance about poor Mr.
Fynes' life? It seemed to me that he must have enemies; that
there must have been something in his life, or his manner of
living, which accounted for such a terrible crime."

"Why, sure not!" Mr. Coulson declared heartily. "It was a
cleverly worked job, but there was no mystery about it. Some chap
went for him because he got riding about like a millionaire. A
more unromantic figure than Hamilton Fynes never breathed. Call
him a crank and you've finished with him."

Penelope sighed once more and looked at the tips of her patent
shoes.

"It has been so kind of you," she murmured, "to talk to us. And
yet, do you know, I am a little disappointed. I was hoping that
you might have been able to tell us something more about the poor
fellow."

"He was no talker," Mr. Coulson declared. "It was little enough
he had to say to me, and less to any one else."

"It seems strange," she remarked innocently, "that he should have
been so shy. He didn't strike me that way when I knew him at home
in Massachusetts, you know. He travelled about so much in later