Mr. Coulson’s two visitors left and got into a small electric brougham which was waiting for them.  Mr. Coulson himself watched them drive off and glanced at the clock.  It was already a quarter past six.  He went into the cafe and ordered a light dinner, which he consumed with much obvious enjoyment.  Then he lit a cigar and went into the smoking room.  Selecting a pile of newspapers, he drew up an easy chair to the fire and made himself comfortable.

“Seems to me I may have a longish wait,” he said to himself.

As a matter of fact, he was disappointed.  At precisely seven o’clock, Mr. Richard Vanderpole strolled into the room and, after a casual glance around, approached his chair and touched him on the shoulder.  In his evening clothes the newcomer was no longer obtrusively American.  He was dressed in severely English fashion, from the cut of his white waistcoat to the admirable poise of his white tie.  He smiled as he patted Coulson upon the shoulder.

“This is Mr. Coulson, I’m sure,” he declared,—­“Mr. James B. Coulson from New York?”

“You’re dead right,” Mr. Coulson admitted, laying down his newspaper and favoring his visitor with a quick upward glance.

“This is great!” the young man continued.  “Just off the boat, eh?  Well, I am glad to see you,—­very glad indeed to make your acquaintance, I should say.”

Mr. Coulson replied in similar terms.  A waiter who was passing through the room hesitated, for it was a greeting which generally ended in a summons for him.

“What shall it be?” the newcomer asked.

“I’ve just taken dinner,” Mr. Coulson said.  “Coffee and cognac’ll do me all right.”

“And a Martini cocktail for me,” the young man ordered.  “I am dining down in the restaurant with some friends later on.  Come over to this corner, Mr. Coulson.  Why, you’re looking first-rate.  Great boat, the Lusitania, isn’t she?  What sort of a trip did you have?”

So they talked till the drinks had been brought and paid for, till another little party had quitted the room and they sat in their lonely corner, secure from observation or from any possibility of eavesdropping.  Then Mr. Richard Vanderpole leaned forward in his chair and dropped his voice.

“Coulson,” he said, “the chief is anxious.  We don’t understand this affair.  Do you know anything?”

“Not a d——­d thing!” Coulson answered.

“Were you shadowed on the boat?” the young man asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” Coulson answered.  “Fynes was in his stateroom six hours before we started.  I can’t make head nor tail of it.”

“He had the papers, of course?”

“Sewn in the lining of his coat,” Coulson muttered.  “You read about that in tonight’s papers.  The lining was torn and the space empty.  He had them all right when he left the steamer.”

The young man looked around; the room was still empty.

“I’m fresh in this,” he said.  “I got some information this afternoon, and the chief sent me over to see you on account of it.  We had better not discuss possibilities, I suppose?  The thing’s too big.  The chief’s almost off his head.  Is there any chance, do you think, Coulson, that this was an ordinary robbery?  I am not sure that the special train wasn’t a mistake.”