“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, 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 years, too, didn’t he?”

Penelope’s eyes were suddenly upraised.  For the first time Mr. Coulson’s ready answers failed him.  Not a muscle of his face moved under the girl’s scrutiny, but he hesitated for a short time before he answered her.

“Not that I know of,” he said at length.  “No, I shouldn’t have called him much of a traveller.”

Penelope rose to her feet and held out her hand.

“It has been very nice indeed of you to see us, Mr. Coulson,” she said, “especially after all these other people have been bothering you.  Of course, I am sorry that you haven’t anything more to tell us than we knew already.  Still, I felt that I couldn’t rest until we had been.”

“It’s a sad affair, anyhow,” Mr. Coulson declared, walking with them to the door.  “Don’t you get worrying your head, young lady, though, with any notion of his having had enemies, or anything of that sort.  The poor fellow was no hero of romance.  I don’t fancy even your halfpenny papers could drag any out of his life.  It was just a commonplace robbery, with a bad ending for poor Fynes.  Good evening, miss!  Good night, sir!  Glad to have met you, Sir Charles.”