The Illustrious Prince. E. Phillips Oppenheim

Hamilton Fynes, and we hope that you will answer a few questions for us.”

      Mr. Coulson sat down upon a trunk with his hairbrushes in his hand.

      “Well,” he declared, “you detectives do get to know things, don’t you?”

      “Nothing so remarkable in that, Mr. Coulson,” Inspector Jacks remarked pleasantly. “A newspaper man had been before me, I see.”

      Mr. Coulson nodded.

      “That’s so,” he admitted. “Seems to me I may have been a bit indiscreet in talking so much to that young reporter. I have just read his account of my interview, and he’s got it pat, word by word. Now, Mr. Jacks, if you’ll just invest a halfpenny in that newspaper, you don’t need to ask me any questions. That young man had a kind of pleasant way with him, and I told him all I knew.”

      “Just so, Mr. Coulson,” the Inspector answered. “At the same time nothing that you told him throws any light at all upon the circumstances which led to the poor fellow’s death.”

      “That,” Mr. Coulson declared, “is not my fault. What I don’t know I can’t tell you.”

      “You were acquainted with Mr. Fynes some years ago?” the Inspector asked. “Can you tell me what business he was in then?”

      “Same as now, for anything I know,” Mr. Coulson answered. “He was a clerk in one of the Government offices at Washington.”

      “Government offices,” Inspector Jacks repeated. “Have you any idea what department?”

      Mr. Coulson was not sure.

      “It may have been the Excise Office,” he remarked thoughtfully. “I did hear, but I never took any particular notice.”

      “Did you ever form any idea as to the nature of his work?” Inspector Jacks asked.

      “Bless you, no!” Mr. Coulson replied, brushing his hair vigorously. “It never entered into my head to ask him, and I never heard him mention it. I only know that he was a quiet-living, decent sort of a chap, but, as I put it to our young friend the newspaper man, he was a crank.”

      The Inspector was disappointed. He began to feel that he was wasting his time.

      “Did you know anything of the object of his journey to Europe?” he asked.

      “Nary a thing,” Mr. Coulson declared. “He only came on deck once or twice, and he had scarcely a civil word even for me. Why, I tell you, sir,” Mr. Coulson continued, “if he saw me coming along on the promenade, he’d turn round and go the other way, for fear I’d ask him to come and have a drink. A c-r-a-n-k, sir! You write it down at that, and you won’t be far out.”

      “He certainly seems to have been a queer lot,” the Inspector declared. “By the bye,” he continued, “you said something, I believe, about his having had more money with him than was found upon his person.”

      “That’s so,” Mr. Coulson admitted. “I know he deposited a pocketbook with the purser, and I happened to be standing by when he received it back. I noticed that he had three or four thousand-dollar bills, and there didn’t seem to be anything of the sort upon him when he was found.”

      The Inspector made a note of this.

      “You believe yourself, then, Mr. Coulson,” he said, closing his pocketbook, “that the murder was committed for the purpose of robbery?”

      “Seems to me it’s common sense,” Mr. Coulson replied. “A man who goes and takes a special train to London from the docks of a city like Liverpool—a city filled with the scum of the world, mind you—kind of gives himself away as a man worth robbing, doesn’t he?”

      The Inspector nodded.

      “That’s sensible talk, Mr. Coulson,” he acknowledged. “You never heard, I suppose, of his having had a quarrel with any one?”

      “Never in my life,” Mr. Coulson declared. “He wasn’t the sort to make enemies, any more than he was the sort to make friends.”

      The Inspector took up his hat. His manner now was no longer inquisitorial. With the closing of his notebook a new geniality had taken the place of his official stiffness.

      “You are making a long stay here, Mr. Coulson?” he asked.

      “A week or so, maybe,” that gentleman answered. “I am in the machinery patent line—machinery for the manufacture of woollen goods mostly—and I have a few appointments in London. Afterwards I am going on to Paris. You can hear of me at any time either here or at the Grand Hotel, Paris, but there’s nothing further to be got out of me as regards Mr. Hamilton Fynes.”

      The Inspector was of the same opinion and took his departure. Mr. Coulson waited for some little time, still sitting on his trunk and clasping his hairbrushes. Then he moved over to the table on which stood the telephone instrument and asked for a number. The reply came in a minute or two in the form of a question.

      “It’s Mr. James B. Coulson from New York, landed this afternoon from the Lusitania,” Mr. Coulson said. “I am at the Savoy Hotel, speaking from my room—number 443.”

      There was a brief silence—then a reply.

      “You had better be in the bar smoking-room at seven o’clock. If nothing happens, don’t leave the hotel this evening.”

      Mr. Coulson replaced the receiver and rang off. A page-boy knocked at the door.

      “Young lady downstairs wishes to see you, sir,” he announced.

      Mr. Coulson took up the card from the tray.

      “Miss Penelope Morse,” he said softly to himself. “Seems to me I’m rather popular this evening. Say I’ll be down right away, my boy.”

      “Very good, sir,” the page answered. “There’s a gentleman with her, sir. His card’s underneath the lady’s.”

      Mr. Coulson examined the tray once more. A gentleman’s visiting card informed him that his other caller was Sir Charles Somerfield, Bart.

      “Bart,” Mr. Coulson remarked thoughtfully. “I’m not quite catching on to that, but I suppose he goes in with the young lady.”

      “They’re both together, sir,” the boy announced.

      Mr. Coulson completed his toilet and hurried downstairs