The Illustrious Prince
by E. Phillips Oppenheim
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

By

E. Phillips Oppenheim

CONTENTS

I Mr. Hamilton Fynes, Urgent
II The End of the Journey
III An Incident and an Accident
IV Miss Penelope Morse
V An Affair of State
VI Mr. Coulson Interviewed
VII A Fatal Despatch
VIII An Interrupted Theatre Party
IX Inspector Jacks Scores
X Mr. Coulson Outmatched
XI A Commission
XII Penelope Intervenes
XIII East and West
XIV An Engagement
XV Penelope Explains
XVI Concerning Prince Maiyo
XVII A Gay Night in Paris
XVIII Mr. Coulson is Indiscreet
XIX A Momentous Question
XX The Answer
XXI A Clue
XXII A Breath From the East
XXIII On the Trail
XXIV Prince Maiyo Bids High
XXV Hobson's Choice
XXVI Some Farewells
XXVII A Prisoner
XXVIII Patriotism
XXIX A Race
XXX Inspector Jacks Importunate
XXXI Good-Bye!
XXXII Prince Maiyo Speaks
XXXIII Unafraid
XXXIV Banzai

CHAPTER I. MR. HAMILTON FYNES, URGENT

There was a little murmur of regret amongst the five hundred and
eighty-seven saloon passengers on board the steamship Lusitania,
mingled, perhaps, with a few expressions of a more violent
character. After several hours of doubt, the final verdict had at
last been pronounced. They had missed the tide, and no attempt
was to be made to land passengers that night. Already the engines
had ceased to throb, the period of unnatural quietness had
commenced. Slowly, and without noticeable motion, the great liner
swung round a little in the river.

A small tug, which had been hovering about for some time, came
screaming alongside. There was a hiss from its wave-splashed
deck, and a rocket with a blue light flashed up into the sky. A
man who had formed one of the long line of passengers, leaning
over the rail, watching the tug since it had come into sight, now
turned away and walked briskly to the steps leading to the
bridge. As it happened, the captain himself was in the act of
descending. The passenger accosted him, and held out what seemed
to be a letter.

"Captain Goodfellow," he said, "I should be glad if you would
glance at the contents of that note."

The captain, who had just finished a long discussion with the
pilot and was not in the best of humor, looked a little
surprised.

"What, now?" he asked.

"If you please," was the quiet answer. "The matter is urgent."

"Who are you?" the captain asked.

"My name is Hamilton Fynes," the other answered. "I am a saloon
passenger on board your ship, although my name does not appear in
the list. That note has been in my pocket since we left New York,
to deliver to you in the event of a certain contingency
happening."

"The contingency being?" the captain asked, tearing open the
envelope and moving a little nearer the electric light which
shone out from the smoking room.

"That the Lusitania did not land her passengers this evening."

The captain read the note, examined the signature carefully, and
whistled softly to himself.

"You know what is inside this?" he asked, looking into his
companion's face with some curiosity.

"Certainly," was the brief reply.

"Your name is Mr. Hamilton Fynes, the Mr. Hamilton Fynes
mentioned in this letter?"

"That is so," the passenger admitted.

The captain nodded.

"Well," he said, "you had better get down on the lower deck, port
side. By the bye, have you any friends with you?"

"I am quite alone," he answered.

"So much the better," the captain declared. "Don't tell any one
that you are going ashore if you can help it."

"I certainly will not, sir," the other answered. "Thank you very
much."

"Of course, you know that you can't take your luggage with you?"
the captain remarked.

"That is of no consequence at all, sir," Mr. Hamilton Fynes
answered. "I will leave instructions for my trunk to be sent on
after me. I have all that I require, for the moment, in this
suitcase."

The captain blew his whistle. Mr. Hamilton Fynes made his way
quietly to the lower deck, which was almost deserted. In a very
few minutes he was joined by half a dozen sailors, dragging a
rope ladder. The little tug came screaming around, and before any
of the passengers on the deck above had any idea of what was
happening, Mr. Hamilton Fynes was on board the Anna Maria, and on
his way down the river, seated in a small, uncomfortable cabin,
lit by a single oil lamp.

No one spoke more than a casual word to him from the moment he
stepped to the deck until the short journey was at an end. He was
shown at once into the cabin, the door of which he closed without
a moment's delay. A very brief examination of the interior
convinced him that he was indeed alone. Thereupon he seated
himself with his back to the wall and his face to the door, and
finding an English newspaper on the table, read it until they
reached the docks. Arrived there, he exchanged a civil good-night
with the captain, and handed a sovereign to the seaman who held
his bag while he disembarked.

For several minutes after he had stepped on to the wooden
platform, Mr. Hamilton Fynes showed no particular impatience to
continue his journey. He stood in the shadow of one of the sheds,
looking about him with quick furtive glances, as though anxious
to assure himself that there was no one around who was taking a
noticeable interest in his movements. Having satisfied himself at
length upon this point, he made his way to the London and North
Western Railway Station, and knocked at the door of the
station-master's office. The station-master was busy, and
although Mr. Hamilton Fynes had the appearance of a perfectly
respectable transatlantic man of business, there was nothing
about his personality remarkably striking,--nothing, at any rate,
to inspire an unusual amount of respect.

"You wished to see me, sir?" the official asked, merely glancing
up from the desk at which he was sitting with a pile of papers
before him.

Mr. Hamilton Fynes leaned over the wooden counter which separated
him from the interior of the office. Before he spoke, he glanced
around as though to make sure that he had not forgotten to close
the door.

"I require a special train to London as quickly as possible," he
announced. "I should be glad if you could let me have one within
half an hour, at any rate.

The station-master rose to his feet.

"Quite impossible, sir," he declared a little brusquely.
"Absolutely out of the question!"

"May I ask why it is out of the question?" Mr. Hamilton Fynes
inquired.

"In the first place," the station-master answered, "a special
train to London would cost you a hundred and eighty pounds, and
in the second place, even if you were willing to pay that sum, it
would be at least two hours before I could start you off. We
could not possibly disorganize the whole of our fast traffic. The
ordinary mail train leaves here at midnight with sleeping-cars."

Mr. Hamilton Fynes held out a letter which he had produced from
his breast pocket, and which was, in appearance, very similar to
the one which he had presented, a short time ago, to the captain
of the Lusitania.

"Perhaps you will kindly read this," he said. "I am perfectly
willing to pay the hundred and eighty pounds."

The station-master tore open the envelope and read the few lines
contained therein. His manner underwent at once a complete
change, very much as the manner of the captain of the Lusitania
had done. He took the letter over to his green-shaded writing
lamp, and examined the signature carefully. When he returned, he
looked at Mr. Hamilton Fynes curiously. There was, however,
something more than curiosity in his glance. There was also
respect.

"I will give this matter my personal attention at once, Mr.
Fynes," he said, lifting the flap of the counter and coming out.
"Do you care to come inside and wait in my private office?"

"Thank you," Mr. Hamilton Fynes answered; "I will walk up and
down the platform."

"There is a refreshment room just on the left," the
station-master remarked, ringing violently at a telephone. "I
dare say we shall get you off in less than half an hour. We will
do our best, at any rate. It's an awkward time just now to
command an absolutely clear line, but if we can once get you past
Crewe you'll be all right. Shall we fetch you from the
refreshment room when we are ready?"

"If you please," the intending passenger answered.

Mr. Hamilton Fynes discovered that place of entertainment without
difficulty, ordered for himself a cup of coffee and a sandwich,
and drew a chair close up to the small open fire, taking care,
however, to sit almost facing the only entrance to the room. He
laid his hat upon the counter, close to which he had taken up his
position, and smoothed back with his left hand his somewhat thick
black hair. He was a man, apparently of middle age, of middle
height, clean-shaven, with good but undistinguished features,
dark eyes, very clear and very bright, which showed, indeed, but
little need of the pince-nez which hung by a thin black cord from
his neck. His hat, low in the crown and of soft gray felt, would
alone have betrayed his nationality. His clothes, however, were
also American in cut. His boots were narrow and of unmistakable
shape. He ate his sandwich with suspicion, and after his first
sip of coffee ordered a whiskey and soda. Afterwards he sat
leaning back in his chair, glancing every now and then at the
clock, but otherwise manifesting no signs of impatience. In less
than half an hour an inspector, cap in hand, entered the room and
announced that everything was ready. Mr. Hamilton Fynes put on
his hat, picked up his suitcase, and followed him on to the
platform. A long saloon carriage, with a guard's brake behind and
an engine in front, was waiting there.

"We've done our best, sir," the station-master remarked with a
note of self-congratulation in his tone. "It's exactly twenty-two
minutes since you came into the office, and there she is. Finest
engine we've got on the line, and the best driver. You've a clear
road ahead too. Wish you a pleasant journey, sir."

"You are very good, sir," Mr. Hamilton Fynes declared. "I am sure
that my friends on the other side will appreciate your attention.
By what time do you suppose that we shall reach London?"

The station-master glanced at the clock.

"It is now eight o'clock, sir," he announced. "If my orders down
the line are properly attended to, you should be there by twenty
minutes to twelve."

Mr. Hamilton Fynes nodded gravely and took his seat in the car.
He had previously walked its entire length and back again.

"The train consists only of this carriage?" he asked. "There is
no other passenger, for instance, travelling in the guard's
brake?"

"Certainly not, sir," the station-master declared. "Such a thing
would be entirely against the regulations. There are five of you,
all told, on board,--driver, stoker, guard, saloon attendant, and
yourself."

Mr. Hamilton Fynes nodded, and appeared satisfied.

"No more luggage, sir? the guard asked.

"I was obliged to leave what I had, excepting this suitcase, upon
the steamer," Mr. Hamilton Fynes explained. "I could not very
well expect them to get my trunk up from the hold. It will follow
me to the hotel tomorrow."

"You will find that the attendant has light refreshments on
board, sir, if you should be wanting anything," the
station-master announced. "We'll start you off now, then.
Good-night, sir!"

Mr. Fynes nodded genially.

"Good-night, Station-master!" he said. "Many thanks to you."

CHAPTER II. THE END OF THE JOURNEY

Southward, with low funnel belching forth fire and smoke into the
blackness of the night, the huge engine, with its solitary saloon
carriage and guard's brake, thundered its way through the night
towards the great metropolis. Across the desolate plain, stripped
bare of all vegetation, and made hideous forever by the growth of
a mighty industry, where the furnace fires reddened the sky, and
only the unbroken line of ceaseless lights showed where town
dwindled into village and suburbs led back again into town. An
ugly, thickly populated neighborhood, whose area of twinkling
lights seemed to reach almost to the murky skies; hideous, indeed
by day, not altogether devoid now of a certain weird
attractiveness by reason of low-hung stars. On, through many
tunnels into the black country itself, where the furnace fires
burned oftener, but the signs of habitation were fewer. Down the
great iron way the huge locomotive rushed onward, leaping and
bounding across the maze of metals, tearing past the dazzling
signal lights, through crowded stations where its passing was
like the roar of some earth-shaking monster. The station-master
at Crewe unhooked his telephone receiver and rang up Liverpool.

"What about this special?" he demanded.

"Passenger brought off from the Lusitania in a private tug.
Orders are to let her through all the way to London."

"I know all about that," the station-master grumbled. "I have
three locals on my hands already,--been held up for half an hour.
Old Glynn, the director's, in one of them too. Might be General
Manager to hear him swear."

"Is she signalled yet?" Liverpool asked.

"Just gone through at sixty miles an hour," was the reply. "She
made our old wooden sheds shake, I can tell you. Who's driving
her?"

"Jim Poynton," Liverpool answered. "The guvnor took him off the
mail specially."

"What's the fellow's name on board, anyhow?" Crewe asked. "Is it
a millionaire from the other side, trying to make records, or a
member of our bloated aristocracy?"

"The name's Fynes, or something like it," was the reply. "He
didn't look much like a millionaire. Came into the office
carrying a small handbag and asked for a special to London.
Guvnor told him it would take two hours and cost a hundred and
eighty pounds. Told him he'd better wait for the mail. He
produced a note from some one or other, and you should have seen
the old man bustle round. We started him off in twenty minutes."

The station-master at Crewe was interested. He knew very well
that it is not the easiest thing in the world to bring influence
to bear upon a great railway company.

"Seems as though he was some one out of the common, anyway," he
remarked. "The guvnor didn't let on who the note was from, I
suppose?"

"Not he," Liverpool answered. "The first thing he did when he
came back into the office was to tear it into small pieces and
throw them on the fire. Young Jenkins did ask him a question, and
he shut him up pretty quick."

"Well, I suppose we shall read all about it in the papers
tomorrow," Crewe remarked. "There isn't much that these reporters
don't get hold of. He must be some one out of the common--some
one with a pull, I mean,--or the captain of the Lusitania would
never have let him off before the other passengers. When are the
rest of them coming through?"

"Three specials leave here at nine o'clock tomorrow morning," was
the reply. "Good night."

The station-master at Crewe hung up his receiver and went about
his duties. Twenty miles southward by now, the special was still
tearing its way into the darkness. Its solitary passenger had
suddenly developed a fit of restlessness. He left his seat and
walked once or twice up and down the saloon. Then he opened the
rear door, crossed the little open space between, and looked into
the guard's brake. The guard was sitting upon a stool, reading a
newspaper. He was quite alone, and so absorbed that he did not
notice the intruder. Mr. Hamilton Fynes quietly retreated,
closing the door behind him. He made his way once more through
the saloon, passed the attendant, who was fast asleep in his
pantry, and was met by a locked door. He let down the window and
looked out. He was within a few feet of the engine, which was
obviously attached direct to the saloon. Mr. Hamilton Fynes
resumed his seat, having disturbed nobody. He produced some
papers from his breast pocket, and spread them out on the table
before him. One, a sealed envelope, he immediately returned,
slipping it down into a carefully prepared place between the
lining and the material of his coat. Of the others he commenced
to make a close and minute investigation. It was a curious fact,
however, that notwithstanding his recent searching examination,
he looked once more nervously around the saloon before he settled
down to his task. For some reason or other, there was not the
slightest doubt that for the present, at any rate, Mr. Hamilton
Fynes was exceedingly anxious to keep his own company. As he drew
nearer to his journey's end, indeed, his manner seemed to lose
something of that composure of which, during the earlier part of
the evening, he had certainly been possessed. Scarcely a minute
passed that he did not lean sideways from his seat and look up
and down the saloon. He sat like a man who is perpetually on the
qui vive. A furtive light shone in his eyes, he was manifestly
uncomfortable. Yet how could a man be safer from espionage than
he!

Rugby telephoned to Liverpool, and received very much the same
answer as Crewe. Euston followed suit.

"Who's this you're sending up tonight?" the station-master asked.
"Special's at Willington now, come through without a stop. Is
some one trying to make a record round the world?"

Liverpool was a little tired of answering questions, and more
than a little tired of this mysterious client. The station-master
at Euston, however, was a person to be treated with respect.

"His name is Mr. Hamilton Fynes, sir," was the reply. "That is
all we know about him. They have been ringing us up all down the
line, ever since the special left."

"Hamilton Fynes," Euston repeated. "Don't know the name. Where
did he come from?"

"Off the Lusitania, sir."

"But we had a message three hours ago that the Lusitania was not
landing her passengers until tomorrow morning," Euston protested.

"They let our man off in a tug, sir," was the reply.

"It went down the river to fetch him. The guvnor didn't want to
give him a special at this time of night, but he just handed him
a note, and we made things hum up here. He was on his way in half
an hour. We have had to upset the whole of the night traffic to
let him through without a stop."

Such a client was, at any rate, worth meeting. The station-master
brushed his coat, put on his silk hat, and stepped out on to the
platform.

CHAPTER III. AN INCIDENT AND AN ACCIDENT

Smoothly the huge engine came gliding into the station--a dumb,
silent creature now, drawing slowly to a standstill as though
exhausted after its great effort. Through the windows of the
saloon the station-master could see the train attendant bending
over this mysterious passenger, who did not seem, as yet, to have
made any preparations for leaving his place. Mr. Hamilton Fynes
was seated at a table covered with papers, but he was leaning
back as though he had been or was still asleep. The
station-master stepped forward, and as he did so the attendant
came hurrying out to the platform, and, pushing back the porters,
called to him by name.

"Mr. Rice," he said, "If you please, sir, will you come this
way?"

The station-master acceded at once to the man's request and
entered the saloon. The attendant clutched at his arm nervously.
He was a pale, anaemic-looking little person at any time, but his
face just now was positively ghastly.

"What on earth is the matter with you?" the station-master asked
brusquely.

"There's something wrong with my passenger, sir," the man
declared in a shaking voice. "I can't make him answer me. He
won't look up, and I don't--I don't think he's asleep. An hour
ago I took him some whiskey. He told me not to disturb him
again--he had some papers to go through."

The station-master leaned over the table. The eyes of the man who
sat there were perfectly wide-open, but there was something
unnatural in their fixed stare,--something unnatural, too, in the
drawn grayness of his face.

"This is Euston, sir," the station-master began,--"the
terminus--"

Then he broke off in the middle of his sentence. A cold shiver
was creeping through his veins. He, too, began to stare; he felt
the color leaving his own cheeks. With an effort he turned to the
attendant.

"Pull down the blinds," he ordered, in a voice which he should
never have recognized as his own. "Quick! Now turn out those
porters, and tell the inspector to stop anyone from coming into
the car."

The attendant, who was shaking like a leaf, obeyed. The
station-master turned away and drew a long breath. He himself was
conscious of a sense of nausea, a giddiness which was almost
overmastering. This was a terrible thing to face without a
second's warning. He had not the slightest doubt but that the man
who was seated at the table was dead!

At such an hour there were only a few people upon the platform,
and two stalwart station policemen easily kept back the loiterers
whose curiosity had been excited by the arrival of the special. A
third took up his position with his back to the entrance of the
saloon, and allowed no one to enter it till the return of the
station-master, who had gone for a doctor. The little crowd was
completely mystified. No one had the slightest idea of what had
happened. The attendant was besieged by questions, but he was
sitting on the step of the car, in the shadow of a policeman,
with his head buried in his hands, and he did not once look up.
Some of the more adventurous tried to peer through the windows at
the lower end of the saloon. Others rushed off to interview the
guard. In a very few minutes, however, the station-master
reappeared upon the scene, accompanied by the doctor. The little
crowd stood on one side and the two men stepped into the car.

The doctor proceeded at once with his examination. Mr. Hamilton
Fynes, this mysterious person who had succeeded, indeed, in
making a record journey, was leaning back in the corner of his
seat, his arms folded, his head drooping a little, but his eyes
still fixed in that unseeing stare. His body yielded itself
unnaturally to the touch. For the main truth the doctor needed
scarcely a glance at him.

"Is he dead?" the station-master asked.

"Stone-dead!" was the brief answer.

"Good God!" the station-master muttered. "Good God!"

The doctor had thrown his handkerchief over the dead man's face.
He was standing now looking at him thoughtfully.

"Did he die in his sleep, I wonder?" the station-master asked.
"It must have been horribly sudden! Was it heart disease?"

The doctor did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be thinking
out some problem.

"The body had better be removed to the station mortuary," he said
at last. "Then, if I were you, I should have the saloon shunted
on to a siding and left absolutely untouched. You had better
place two of your station police in charge while you telephone to
Scotland Yard."

"To Scotland Yard?" the station-master exclaimed.

The doctor nodded. He looked around as though to be sure that
none of that anxious crowd outside could overhear.

"There's no question of heart disease here," he explained. "The
man has been murdered!"

The station-master was horrified,--horrified and blankly
incredulous.

"Murdered!" he repeated. "Why, it's impossible! There was no one
else on the train except the attendant--not a single other
person. All my advices said one passenger only."

The doctor touched the man's coat with his finger, and the
station-master saw what he had not seen before,--saw what made
him turn away, a little sick. He was a strong man, but he was not
used to this sort of thing, and he had barely recovered yet from
the first shock of finding himself face to face with a dead man.
Outside, the crowd upon the platform was growing larger. White
faces were being pressed against the windows at the lower end of
the saloon.

"There is no question about the man having been murdered," the
doctor said, and even his voice shook a little. "His own hand
could never have driven that knife home. I can tell you, even,
how it was done. The man who stabbed him was in the compartment
behind there, leaned over, and drove this thing down, just
missing the shoulder. There was no struggle or fight of any sort.
It was a diabolical deed!"

"Diabolical indeed!" the station-master echoed hoarsely.

"You had better give orders for us to be shunted down on to a
siding just as we are," the doctor continued, "and send one of
your men to telephone to Scotland Yard. Perhaps it would be as
well, too, not to touch those papers until some one comes. See
that the attendant does not go home, or the guard. They will
probably be wanted to answer questions."

The station-master stepped out to the platform, summoned an
inspector, and gave a few brief orders. Slowly the saloon was
backed out of the station again on to a neglected siding, a sort
of backwater for spare carriages and empty trucks,--an
ignominious resting place, indeed, after its splendid journey
thought the night. The doors at both ends were closed and two
policemen placed on duty to guard them. The doctor and the
station-master seated themselves out of sight of their gruesome
companion, and the station-master told all that he knew about the
despatch of the special and the man who had ordered it. The
attendant, who still moved about like a man in a dream, brought
them some brandy and soda and served them with shaking hand. They
all three talked together in whispers, the attendant telling them
the few incidents of the journey down, which, except for the dead
man's nervous desire for solitude, seemed to possess very little
significance. Then at last there was a sharp tap at the window. A
tall, quietly dressed man, with reddish skin and clear gray eyes,
was helped up into the car. He saluted the doctor mechanically.
His eyes were already travelling around the saloon.

"Inspector Jacks from Scotland Yard, sir," he announced. "I have
another man outside. If you don't mind, we'll have him in."

"By all means," the station-master answered. "I am afraid that
you will find this rather a serious affair. We have left
everything untouched so far as we could."

The second detective was assisted to clamber up into the car. It
seemed, however, as though the whole force of Scotland Yard could
scarcely do much towards elucidating an affair which, with every
question which was asked and answered, grew more mysterious. The
papers upon the table before the dead man were simply circulars
and prospectuses of no possible importance. His suitcase
contained merely a few toilet necessaries and some clean linen.
There was not a scrap of paper or even an envelope of any sort in
his pockets. In a small leather case they found a thousand
dollars in American notes, five ten-pound Bank of England notes,
and a single visiting card on which was engraved the name of Mr.
Hamilton Fynes. In his trousers pocket was a handful of gold. He
had no other personal belongings of any sort. The space between
the lining of his coat and the material itself was duly noticed,
but it was empty. His watch was a cheap one, his linen unmarked,
and his clothes bore only the name of a great New York retail
establishment. He had certainly entered the train alone, and both
the guard and attendant were ready to declare positively that no
person could have been concealed in it. The engine-driver, on his
part, was equally ready to swear that not once from the moment
when they had steamed out of Liverpool Station until they had
arrived within twenty miles of London, had they travelled at less
than forty miles an hour. At Willington he had found a signal
against him which had brought him nearly to a standstill, and
under the regulations he had passed through the station at ten
miles an hour. These were the only occasions, however, on which
he had slackened speed at all. The train attendant, who was a
nervous man, began to shiver again and imagine unmentionable
things. The guard, who had never left his own brake, went home
and dreamed that his effigy had been added to the collection of
Madame Tussaud. The reporters were the only people who were
really happy, with the exception, perhaps of Inspector Jacks, who
had a weakness for a difficult case.

Fifteen miles north of London, a man lay by the roadside in the
shadow of a plantation of pine trees, through which he had
staggered only a few minutes ago. His clothes were covered with
dust, he had lost his cap, and his trousers were cut about the
knee as though from a fall. He was of somewhat less than medium
height, dark, slender, with delicate features, and hair almost
coal black. His face, as he moved slowly from side to side upon
the grass, was livid with pain. Every now and then he raised
himself and listened. The long belt of main road, which passed
within a few feet of him, seemed almost deserted. Once a cart
came lumbering by, and the man who lay there, watching, drew
closely back into the shadows. A youth on a bicycle passed,
singing to himself. A boy and girl strolled by, arm in arm,
happy, apparently, in their profound silence. Only a couple of
fields away shone the red and green lights of the railway track.
Every few minutes the goods-trains went rumbling over the metals.
The man on the ground heard them with a shiver. Resolutely he
kept his face turned in the opposite direction. The night mail
went thundering northward, and he clutched even at the nettles
which grew amongst the grass where he was crouching, as though
filled with a sudden terror. Then there was silence once
more--silence which became deeper as the hour approached
midnight. Passers-by were fewer; the birds and animals came out
from their hiding places. A rabbit scurried across the road; a
rat darted down the tiny stream. Now and then birds moved in the
undergrowth, and the man, who was struggling all the time with a
deadly faintness, felt the silence grow more and more oppressive.
He began even to wonder where he was. He closed his eyes. Was
that really the tinkling of a guitar, the perfume of almond and
cherry blossom, floating to him down the warm wind? He began to
lose himself in dreams until he realized that actual
unconsciousness was close upon him. Then he set his teeth tight
and clenched his hands. Away in the distance a faint,
long-expected sound came travelling to his ears. At last, then,
his long wait was over. Two fiery eyes were stealing along the
lonely road. The throb of an engine was plainly audible. He
staggered up, swaying a little on his feet, and holding out his
hands. The motor car came to a standstill before him, and the man
who was driving it sprang to the ground. Words passed between
them rapidly,--questions and answers,--the questions of an
affectionate servant, and the answers of a man fighting a grim
battle for consciousness. But these two spoke in a language of
their own, a language which no one who passed along that road was
likely to understand.

With a groan of relief the man who had been picked up sank back
amongst the cushioned seats, carefully almost tenderly, aided by
the chauffeur. Eagerly he thrust his hand into one of the leather
pockets and drew out a flask of brandy. The rush of cold air, as
the car swung round and started off, was like new life to him. He
closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they had come to a
standstill underneath a red lamp.

"The doctor's!" he muttered to himself, and, staggering out, rang
the bell.

Dr. Spencer Whiles had had a somewhat dreary day, and was
thoroughly enjoying a late rubber of bridge with three of his
most agreeable neighbors. A summons into the consulting room,
however, was so unexpected a thing that he did not hesitate for a
moment to obey it, without even waiting to complete a deal. When
he entered the apartment, he saw a slim but determined-looking
young man, whose clothes were covered with dust, and who,
although he sat with folded arms and grim face, was very nearly
in a state of collapse.

"You seem to have met with an accident," the doctor remarked.
"How did it happen?"

"I have been run over by a motor car," his patient said, speaking
slowly and with something singularly agreeable in his voice
notwithstanding its slight accent of pain. "Can you patch me up
till I get to London?"

The doctor looked him over.

"What were you doing in the road?" he asked.

"I was riding a bicycle," the other answered. "I dare say it was
my own fault; I was certainly on the wrong side of the road. You
can see what has happened to me. I am bruised and cut; my side is
painful, and also my knee. A car is waiting outside now to take
me to my home, but I thought that I had better stop and see you."

The doctor was a humane man, with a miserable practice, and he
forgot all about his bridge party. For half an hour he worked
over his patient. At the end of that time he gave him a brandy
and soda and placed a box of cigarettes before him.

"You'll do all right now," he said. "That's a nasty cut on your
leg, but you've no broken bones."

"I feel absolutely well again, thank you very much," the young
man said. "I will smoke a cigarette, if I may. The brandy, I
thank you, no!"

"Just as you like," the doctor answered. "I won't say that you
are not better without it. Help yourself to the cigarettes. Are
you going back to London in the motor car, then?"

"Yes!" the patient answered. "It is waiting outside for me now,
and I must not keep the man any longer. Will you let me know, if
you please, how much I owe you?"

The doctor hesitated. Fees were a rare thing with him, and the
evidences of his patient's means were somewhat doubtful. The
young man put his hand into his pocket.

"I am afraid," he said, "that I am not a very presentable-looking
object, but I am glad to assure you that I am not a poor man. I
am able to pay your charges and to still feel that the obligation
is very much on my side.

The doctor summoned up his courage.

"We will say a guinea, then,"he remarked with studied
indifference.

"You must allow me to make it a little more than that," the
patient answered. "Your treatment was worth is. I feel perfectly
recovered already. Good night, sir!"

The doctor's eyes sparkled as he glanced at the gold which his
visitor had laid upon the table.

"You are very good, I'm sure," he murmured. "I hope you will have
a comfortable journey. With a nerve like yours, you'll be all
right in a day or so."

He let his patient out and watched him depart with some
curiosity, watched until the great motor-car had swung round the
corner of the street and started on its journey to London.

"No bicycle there," he remarked to himself, as he closed the
door. "I wonder what they did with it."

CHAPTER IV. MISS PENELOPE MORSE

It was already a little past the customary luncheon hour at the
Carlton, and the restaurant was well filled. The orchestra had
played their first selection, and the stream of incoming guests
had begun to slacken. A young lady who had been sitting in the
palm court for at least half an hour rose to her feet, and,
glancing casually at her watch, made her way into the hotel. She
entered the office and addressed the chief reception clerk.

"Can you tell me," she asked, "if Mr. Hamilton Fynes is staying
here? He should have arrived by the Lusitania last night or early
this morning."

It is not the business of a hotel reception clerk to appear
surprised at anything. Nevertheless the man looked at her, for a
moment, with a curious expression in his eyes.

"Mr. Hamilton Fynes!" he repeated. "Did you say that you were
expecting him by the Lusitania, madam?"

"Yes!" the young lady answered. "He asked me to lunch with him
here today. Can you tell me whether he has arrived yet? If he is
in his room, I should be glad if you would send up to him."

There were several people in the office who were in a position to
overhear their conversation. With a word of apology, the man came
round from his place behind the mahogany counter. He stood by the
side of the young lady, and he seemed to be suffering from some
embarrassment.

"Will you pardon my asking, madam, if you have seen the
newspapers this morning?" he inquired.

Without a doubt, her first thought was that the question savored
of impertinence. She looked at him with slightly upraised
eyebrows. She was slim, of medium complexion, with dark brown
hair parted in the middle and waving a little about her temples.
She was irreproachably dressed, from the tips of her patent shoes
to the black feathers in her Paris hat.

"The newspapers!" she repeated. "Why, no, I don't think that I
have seen them this morning. What have they to do with Mr.
Hamilton Fynes?"

The clerk pointed to the open door of a small private office.

"If you will step this way for one moment, madam," he begged.

She tapped the floor with her foot and looked at him curiously.
Certainly the people around seemed to be taking some interest in
their conversation.

"Why should I?" she asked. "Cannot you answer my question here?"

"If madam will be so good," he persisted.

She shrugged her shoulders and followed him. Something in the
man's earnest tone and almost pleading look convinced her, at
least, of his good intentions. Besides, the interest which her
question had undoubtedly aroused amongst the bystanders was, to
say the least of it, embarrassing. He pulled the door to after
them.

"Madam," he said, "there was a Mr. Hamilton Fynes who came over
by the Lusitania, and who had certainly engaged rooms in this
hotel, but he unfortunately, it seems, met with an accident on
his way from Liverpool."

Her manner changed at once. She began to understand what it all
meant. Her lips parted, her eyes were wide open.

"An accident?" she faltered.

He gently rolled a chair up to her. She sank obediently into it.

"Madam," he said, "it was a very bad accident indeed. I trust
that Mr. Hamilton Fynes was not a very intimate friend or a
relative of yours. It would perhaps be better for you to read the
account for yourself."

He placed a newspaper in her hands. She read the first few lines
and suddenly turned upon him. She was white to the lips now, and
there was real terror in her tone. Yet if he had been in a
position to have analyzed the emotion she displayed, he might
have remarked that there was none of the surprise, the blank,
unbelieving amazement which might have been expected from one
hearing for the first time of such a calamity.

"Murdered!" she exclaimed. "Is this true?"

"It appears to be perfectly true, madam, I regret to say," the
clerk answered. "Even the earlier editions were able to supply
the man's name, and I am afraid that there is no doubt about his
identity. The captain of the Lusitania confirmed it, and many of
the passengers who saw him leave the ship last night have been
interviewed."

"Murdered!" she repeated to herself with trembling lips. "It
seems such a horrible death! Have they any idea who did it?" she
asked. "Has any one been arrested?"

"At present, no, madam," the clerk answered. "The affair, as you
will see if you read further, is an exceedingly mysterious one."

She rocked a little in her chair, but she showed no signs of
fainting. She picked up the paper and found the place once more.
There were two columns filled with particulars of the tragedy.

"Where can I be alone and read this?" she asked.

"Here, if you please, madam," the clerk answered. "I must go back
to my desk. There are many arrivals just now. Will you allow me
to send you something--a little brandy, perhaps?"

"Nothing, thank you," she answered. "I wish only to be alone
while I read this."

He left her with a little sympathetic murmur, and closed the door
behind him. The girl raised her veil now and spread the newspaper
out on the table before her. There was an account of the tragedy;
there were interviews with some of the passengers, a message from
the captain. In all, it seemed that wonderfully little was known
of Mr. Hamilton Fynes. He had spoken to scarcely a soul on board,
and had remained for the greater part of the time in his
stateroom. The captain had not even been aware of his existence
till the moment when Mr. Hamilton Fynes had sought him out and
handed him an order, signed by the head of his company,
instructing him to obey in any respect the wishes of this
hitherto unknown passenger. The tug which had been hired to meet
him had gone down the river, so it was not possible, for the
moment, to say by whom it had been chartered. The station-master
at Liverpool knew nothing except that the letter presented to him
by the dead man was a personal one from a great railway magnate,
whose wishes it was impossible to disregard. There had not been a
soul, apparently, upon the steamer who had known anything worth
mentioning of Mr. Hamilton Fynes or his business. No one in
London had made inquiries for him or claimed his few effects.
Half a dozen cables to America remained unanswered.

That papers had been stolen from him--papers or money--was
evident from the place of concealment in his coat, where the
lining had been torn away, but there was not the slightest
evidence as to the nature of these documents or the history of
the murdered man. All that could be done was to await the news
from the other side, which was momentarily expected.

The girl went through it all, line by line, almost word by word.
Whatever there might have been of relationship or friendship
between her and the dead man, the news of his terrible end left
her shaken, indeed, but dry-eyed. She was apparently more
terrified than grieved, and now that the first shock had passed
away, her mind seemed occupied with thoughts which may indeed
have had some connection with this tragedy, but were scarcely
wholly concerned with it. She sat for a long while with her hands
still resting upon the table but her eyes fixed out of the
window. Then at last she rose and made her way outside. Her
friend the reception clerk was engaged in conversation with one
or two men, a conversation of which she was obviously the
subject. As she opened the door, one of them broke off in the
midst of what he was saying and would have accosted her. The
clerk, however, interposed, and drew her a step or two back into
the room.

"Madam," he said, "one of these gentlemen is from Scotland Yard,
and the others are reporters. They are all eager to know anything
about Mr. Hamilton Fynes. I expect they will want to ask you some
questions."

The girl opened her lips and closed them again.

"I regret to say that I have nothing whatever to tell them," she
declared. "Will you kindly let them know that?"

The clerk shook his head.

"I am afraid you will find them quite persistent, madam," he
said.

"I cannot tell them things which I do not know myself," she
answered, frowning.

"Naturally," the clerk admitted; "yet these gentlemen from
Scotland Yard have special privileged, of course, and there
remains the fact that you were engaged to lunch with Mr. Fynes
here."

"If it will help me to get rid of them," she said, "I will speak
to the representative of Scotland Yard. I will have nothing
whatever to say to the reporters."

The clerk turned round and beckoned to the foremost figure in the
little group. Inspector Jacks, tall, lantern-jawed, dressed with
the quiet precision of a well-to-do-man of affairs, and with no
possible suggestion of his calling in his manner or attire, was
by her side almost at once.

"Madam," he said, "I understand that Mr. Hamilton Fynes was a
friend of yours?"

"An acquaintance," she corrected him.

"And your name?" he asked.

"I am Miss Morse," she replied,--"Miss Penelope Morse."

"You were to have lunched here with Mr. Hamilton Fynes," the
detective continued. "When, may I ask, did the invitation reach
you?"

"Yesterday," she told him, "by marconigram from Queenstown."

"You can tell us a few things about the deceased, without doubt,"
Mr. Jacks said,--"his profession, for instance, or his social
standing? Perhaps you know the reason for his coming to Europe?"

The girl shook her head.

"Mr. Fynes and I were not intimately acquainted," she answered.
"We met in Paris some years ago, and when he was last in London,
during the autumn, I lunched with him twice."

"You had no letter from him, then, previous to the marconigram?"
the inspector asked.

"I have scarcely ever received a letter from him in my life," she
answered. "He was as bad a correspondent as I am myself."

"You know nothing, then, of the object of his present visit to
England?"

"Nothing whatever," she answered.

"When he was over here before," the inspector asked, "do you know
what his business was then?"

"Not in the least," she replied.

"You can tell us his address in the States?" Inspector Jacks
suggested.

She shook her head.

"I cannot," she answered. "As I told you just now, I have never
had a letter from him in my life. We exchanged a few notes,
perhaps, when we were in Paris, about trivial matters, but
nothing more than that."

"He must at some time, in Paris, for instance, or when you
lunched with him last year, have said something about his
profession, or how he spent his time?"

"He never alluded to it in any way," the girl answered. "I have
not the slightest idea how he passed his time."

The inspector was a little nonplussed. He did not for a moment
believe that the girl was telling the truth.

"Perhaps," he said tentatively, "you do not care to have your
name come before the public in connection with a case so
notorious as this?"

"Naturally," the girl answered. "That, however, would not prevent
my telling you anything that I knew. You seem to find it hard to
believe, but I can assure you that I know nothing. Mr. Fynes was
almost a stranger to me."

The detective was thoughtful.

"So you really cannot help us at all, madam?" he said at length.

"I am afraid not," she answered.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "after you have thought the matter over,
something may occur to you. Can I trouble you for your address?"

"I am staying at Devenham House for the moment," she answered.

He wrote it down in his notebook.

"I shall perhaps do myself the honor of waiting upon you a little
later on," he said. "You may be able, after reflection, to recall
some small details, at any rate, which will be interesting to us.
At present we are absurdly ignorant as to the man's affairs."

She turned away from him to the clerk, and pointed to another
door.

"Can I go out without seeing those others?" she asked. "I really
have nothing to say to them, and this has been quite a shock to
me."

"By all means, madam," the clerk answered. "If you will allow me,
I will escort you to the entrance."

Two of the more enterprising of the journalists caught them up
upon the pavement. Miss Penelope Morse, however, had little to
say to them.

"You must not ask me any more questions about Mr. Hamilton
Fynes," she declared. "My acquaintance with him was of the
slightest. It is true that I came here to lunch today without
knowing what had happened. It has been a shock to me, and I do
not wish to talk about it, and I will not talk about it, for the
present."

She was deaf to their further questions. The hotel clerk handed
her into a taximeter cab, and gave the address to the driver.
Then he went back to his office, where Inspector Jacks was still
sitting.

"This Mr. Hamilton Fynes," he remarked, "seems to have been what
you might call a secretive sort of person. Nobody appears to know
anything about him. I remember when he was staying here before
that he had no callers, and seemed to spend most of his time
sitting in the palm court."

The inspector nodded.

"He was certainly a man who knew how to keep his own counsel," he
admitted. "Most Americans are ready enough to talk about
themselves and their affairs, even to comparative strangers."

The hotel clerk nodded.

"Makes it difficult for you," he remarked.

"It makes the case very interesting, the inspector declared,
"especially when we find him engaged to lunch with a young lady
of such remarkable discretion as miss Penelope Morse."

"You know her?" the clerk asked a little eagerly.

The inspector was engaged, apparently, in studying the pattern of
the carpet.

"Not exactly," he answered. "No, I have no absolute knowledge of
Miss Penelope Morse. By the bye, that was rather an interesting
address that she gave."

"Devenham House," the hotel clerk remarked. "Do you know who
lives there?"

The inspector nodded.

"The Duke of Devenham," he answered. "A very interesting young
lady, I should think, that. I wonder what she and Mr. Hamilton
Fynes would have talked about if they had lunched here today."

The hotel clerk looked dubious. He did not grasp the significance
of the question.

CHAPTER V. AN AFFAIR OF STATE

Miss Penelope Morse was perfectly well aware that the taxicab in
which she left the Carlton Hotel was closely followed by two
others. Through the tube which she found by her side, she altered
her first instructions to the driver, and told him to proceed as
fast as possible to Harrod's Stores. Then, raising the flap at
the rear of the cab, she watched the progress of the chase. Along
Pall Mall the taxi in which she was seated gained considerably,
but in the Park and along the Bird Cage Walk both the other
taxies, risking the police regulations, drew almost alongside.
Once past Hyde Park Corner, however, her cab again drew ahead,
and when she was deposited in front of Harrod's Stores, her
pursuers were out of sight. She paid the driver quickly, a little
over double his fare.

"If any one asks you questions," she said, "say that you had
instructions to wait here for me. Go on to the rank for a quarter
of an hour. Then you can drive away."

"You won't be coming back, then, miss?" the man asked.

"I shall not," she answered, "but I want those men who are
following me to think that I am. They may as well lose a little
time for their rudeness."

The chauffeur touched his hat and obeyed his instructions. Miss
Penelope Morse plunged into the mazes of the Stores with the air
of one to whom the place is familiar. She did not pause, however,
at any of the counters. In something less than two minutes she
had left it again by a back entrance, stepped into another
taxicab which was just setting down a passenger, and was well on
her way back towards Pall Mall. Her ruse appeared to have been
perfectly successful. At any rate, she saw nothing more of the
occupants of the two taxicabs.

She stopped in front of one of the big clubs and, scribbling a
line on her card, gave it to the door keeper.

"Will you find out if this gentleman is in?" she said. "If he is,
will you kindly ask him to step out and speak to me?"

She returned to the cab and waited. In less than five minutes a
tall, broad-shouldered young man, clean-shaven, and moving like
an athlete, came briskly down the steps. He carried a soft hat in
his hand, and directly he spoke his transatlantic origin was
apparent.

"Penelope!" he exclaimed. "Why, what on earth--"

"My dear Dicky," she interrupted, laughing at his expression,
"you need not look so displeased with me. Of course, I know that
I ought not to have come and sent a message into your club. I
will admit at once that it was very forward of me. Perhaps when I
have told you why I did so, you won't look so shocked."

"I'm glad to see you, anyway," he declared. "There's no bad news,
I hope?"

"Nothing that concerns us particularly," she answered. "I simply
want to have a little talk with you. Come in here with me,
please, at once. We can ride for a short distance anywhere."

"But I am just in the middle of a rubber of bridge," he objected.

"It can't be helped," she declared. "To tell you the truth, the
matter I want to talk to you about is of more importance than any
game of cards. Don't be foolish, Dicky. You have your hat in your
hand. Step in here by my side at once."

He looked a little bewildered, but he obeyed her, as most people
did when she was in earnest. She gave the driver an address
somewhere in the city. As soon as they were off, she turned
towards him.

"Dicky," she said, "do you read the newspapers?"

"Well, I can't say that I do regularly," he answered. "I read the
New York Herald, but these London journals are a bit difficult,
aren't they? One has to dig the news out,--sort of treasure-hunt
all the time."

"You have read this murder case, at any rate," she asked, "about
the man who was killed in a special train between Liverpool and
London?"

"Of course," he answered, with a sudden awakening of interest.
"What about it?"

"A good deal," she answered slowly. "In the first place, the man
who was murdered--Mr. Hamilton Fynes--comes from the village
where I was brought up in Massachusetts, and I know more about
him, I dare say, than any one else in this country. What I know
isn't very much, perhaps, but it's interesting. I was to have
lunched with him at the Carlton today; in fact, I went there
expecting to do so, for I am like you--I scarcely ever look
inside these English newspapers. Well, I went to the Carlton and
waited and he did not come. At last I went into the office and
asked whether he had arrived. Directly I mentioned his name, it
was as though I had thrown a bomb shell into the place. The clerk
called me on one side, took me into a private office, and showed
me a newspaper. As soon as I had read the account, I was
interviewed by an inspector from Scotland Yard. Ever since then I
have been followed about by reporters."

The young man whistled softly.

"Say, Penelope!" he exclaimed. "Who was this fellow, anyhow, and
what were you doing lunching with him?"

"That doesn't matter," she answered. "You don't tell me all your
secrets, Mr. Dicky Vanderpole, and it isn't necessary for me to
tell you all mine, even if we are both foreigners in a strange
country. The poor fellow isn't going to lunch with any one else
in this world. I suppose you are thinking what an indiscreet
person I am, as usual?"

The young man considered the matter for a moment.

"No," he said; "I didn't understand that he was the sort of
person you would have been likely to have taken lunch with. But
that isn't my affair. Have you seen the second edition?"

The girl shook her head.

"Haven't I told you that I never read the papers? I only saw what
they showed me in at the Carlton."

"The Press Association have cabled to America, but no one seems
to be able to make out exactly who the fellow is. His letter to
the captain of the steamer was from the chairman of the company,
and his introduction to the manager of the London and North
Western Railway Company was from the greatest railway man in the
world. Mr. Hamilton Fynes must have been a person who had a
pretty considerable pull over there. Curiously enough, though,
only the name of the man was mentioned in them; nothing about his
business, or what he was doing over on this side. He was simply
alluded to as Mr. Hamilton Fynes--the gentleman bearing this
communication.' I expect, after all, that you know more about him
than any one."

She shook her head.

"What I know," she said, "or at least most of it, I am going to
tell you. A few years ago he was a clerk in a Government office
in Washington. He was steady in those days, and was supposed to
have a head. He used to write me occasionally. One day he turned
up in London quite unexpectedly. He said that he had come on
business, and whatever his business was, it took him to St.
Petersburg and Berlin, and then back to Berlin again. I saw quite
a good deal of him that trip."

"The dickens you did!" he muttered.

Miss Penelope Morse laughed softly.

"Come, Dicky," she said, "don't pretend to be jealous. You're an
outrageous flirt, I know, but you and I are never likely to get
sentimental about one another."

"Why not?" he grumbled. "We've always been pretty good pals,
haven't we?"

"Naturally," she answered, "or I shouldn't be here. Do you want
to hear anything more about Mr. Hamilton Fynes?"

"Of course I do," he declared.

"Well, be quiet, then, and don't interrupt," she said. "I knew
London well and he didn't. That is why, as I told you before, we
saw quite a great deal of one another. He was always very
reticent about his affairs, and especially about the business
which had taken him on the Continent. Just before he left,
however, he gave me--well, a hint."

"What was it?" the young man asked eagerly.

She hesitated.

"He didn't put it into so many words," she said, "and I am not
sure, even now, that I ought to tell you, Dicky. Still, you are a
fellow countryman and a budding diplomatist. I suppose if I can
give you a lift I ought to."

The taxi was on the Embankment now, and they sped along for some
time in silence. Mr. Richard Vanderpole was more than a little
puzzled.

"Of course, Penelope," he said, "I don't expect you to tell me
anything which you feel that you oughtn't to. There is one thing,
however, which I must ask you."

She nodded.

"Well?"

"I should like to know what the mischief my being in the
diplomatic service has to do with it?"

"If I explained that," she answered, "I should be telling you
everything I haven't quite made up my mind to do that yet."

"Tell me this?" he asked. "Would that hint which he dropped when
he was here last help you to solve the mystery of his murder?"

"It might," she admitted.

"Then I think," he said, "apart from any other reason, you ought
to tell somebody. The police at present don't seem to have the
ghost of a clue."

"They are not likely to find one," she answered, "unless I help
them."

"Say, Penelope," he exclaimed, "you are not in earnest?"

"I am," she assured him. "It is exactly as I say. I believe I am
one of the few people who could put the police upon the right
track."

"Is there any reason why you shouldn't?" he asked.

"That's just what I can't make up my mind about," she told him.
"However, I have brought you out with me expecting to hear
something, and I am going to tell you this. That last time he
came to England--the time he went to St. Petersburg and twice to
Berlin--he came on government business."

The young man looked, for a moment, incredulous.

"Are you sure of that, Pen?" he asked. "It doesn't sound like our
people, you know, does it?"

"I am quite sure," she declared confidently. "You are a very
youthful diplomat, Dicky, but even you have probably heard of
governments who employ private messengers to carry despatches
which for various reasons they don't care to put through their
embassies."

"Why, that's so, of course, over on this side," he agreed. "These
European nations are up to all manner of tricks. But I tell you
frankly, Pen, I never heard of anything of the sort being done
from Washington."

"Perhaps not," she answered composedly. "You see, things have
developed with us during the last twenty-five years. The old
America had only one foreign policy, and that was to hold
inviolate the Monroe doctrine. European or Asiatic complications
scarcely even interested her. Those times have passed, Dicky.
Cuba and the Philippines were the start of other things. We are
being drawn into the maelstrom. In another ten years we shall be
there, whether we want to be or not."

The young man was deeply interested.

"Well," he admitted, "there's a good deal in what you say,
Penelope. You talk about it all as though you were a diplomat
yourself."

"Perhaps I am," she answered calmly. "A stray young woman like
myself must have something to occupy her thoughts, you know."

He laughed.

"That's not bad," he asserted, "for a girl whom the New York
Herald declared, a few weeks ago, to be one of the most brilliant
young women in English society."

She shrugged her shoulders scornfully.

"That's just the sort of thing the New York Herald would say,"
she remarked. "You see, I have to get a reputation for being
smart and saying bright things, or nobody would ask me anywhere.
Penniless American young women are not too popular over here."

"Marry me, then," he suggested amiably. "I shall have plenty of
money some day."

"I'll see about it when you're grown up," she answered. Just at
present, I think we'd better return to the subject of Hamilton
Fynes."

Mr. Richard Vanderpole sighed, but seemed not disinclined to
follow her suggestion.

"Harvey is a silent man, as you know," he said thoughtfully, "and
he keeps everything of importance to himself. At the same time
these little matters get about in the shop, of course, and I have
never heard of any despatches being brought across from
Washington except in the usual way. Presuming that you are
right," he added after a moment's pause, "and that this fellow
Hamilton Fynes really had something for us, that would account
for his being able to get off the boat and securing his special
train so easily. No one can imagine where he got the pull."

"It accounts, also," Penelope remarked, "for his murder!"

Her companion started.

"You haven't any idea--" he began.

"Nothing so definite as an idea," she interrupted. "I am not
going so far as to say that. I simply know that when a man is
practically the secret agent of his government, and is probably
carrying despatches of an important nature, that an accident such
as he has met with, in a country which is greatly interested in
the contents of those despatches, is a somewhat serious thing."

The young man nodded.

"Say," he admitted "you're dead right. The Pacific cruise, and
our relations with Japan, seem to have rubbed our friends over
here altogether the wrong way. We have irritations enough already
to smooth over, without anything of this sort on the carpet."

"I am going to tell you now," she continued, leaning a little
towards him, "the real reason why I fetched you out of the club
this afternoon and have brought you for this little expedition.
The last time I lunched with Mr. Hamilton Fynes was just after
his return from Berlin. He intrusted me then with a very
important mission. He gave me a letter to deliver to Mr. Blaine
Harvey."

"But I don't understand!" he protested. "Why should he give you
the letter when he was in London himself?"

"I asked him that question myself, naturally," she answered. "He
told me that it was an understood thing that when he was over
here on business he was not even to cross the threshold of the
Embassy, or hold any direct communication with any person
connected with it. Everything had to be done through a third
party, and generally in duplicate. There was another man, for
instance, who had a copy of the same letter, but I never came
across him or even knew his name."

"Gee whiz!" the young man exclaimed. "You're telling me things,
and no mistake! Why this fellow Fynes made a secret service
messenger of you!"

Penelope nodded.

"It was all very simple," she said. "The first Mrs. Harvey, who
was alive then, was my greatest friend, and I was in and out of
the place all the time. Now, perhaps, you can understand the
significance of that marconigram from Hamilton Fynes asking me to
lunch with him at the Carlton today."

Mr. Richard Vanderpole was sitting bolt upright, gazing steadily
ahead.

"I wonder," he said slowly, "what has become of the letter which
he was going to give you!"

"One thing is certain," she declared. "It is in the hands of
those whose interests would have been affected by its delivery."

"How much of this am I to tell the chief?" the young man asked.

"Every word," Penelope answered. "You see, I am trying to give
you a start in your career. What bothers me is an entirely
different question."

"What is it?" he asked.

She laid her hand upon his arm.

"How much of it I shall tell to a certain gentleman who calls
himself Inspector Jacks!"

CHAPTER VI. MR. COULSON INTERVIEWED

The Lusitania boat specials ran into Euston Station soon after
three o'clock in the afternoon. A small company of reporters, and
several other men whose profession was not disclosed from their
appearance, were on the spot to interview certain of the
passengers. A young fellow from the office of the Evening Comet
was, perhaps, the most successful, as, from the lengthy
description which had been telegraphed to him from Liverpool, he
was fortunate enough to accost the only person who had been seen
speaking to the murdered man upon the voyage.

"This is Mr. Coulson, I believe?" the young man said with
conviction, addressing a somewhat stout, gray-headed American,
with white moustache, a Homburg hat, and clothes of distinctly
transatlantic cut.

That gentlemen regarded his interlocutor with some surprise but
without unfriendliness.

"That happens to be my name, sir," he replied. "You have the
advantage of me, though. You are not from my old friends Spencer
& Miles, are you?"

"Spencer & Miles," the young man repeated thoughtfully.

"Woollen firm in London Wall," Mr. Coulson added. "I know they
wanted to see me directly I arrived, and they did say something
about sending to the station."

The young man shook his head, and assumed at the same time his
most engaging manner.

"Why, no, sir!" he admitted. "I have no connection with that firm
at all. The fact is I am on the staff of an evening paper. A
friend of mine in Liverpool--a mutual friend, I believe I may
say," he explained--"wired me your description. I understand that
you were acquainted with Mr. Hamilton Fynes?"

Mr. Coulson set down his suitcase for a moment, to light a cigar.

"Well, if I did know the poor fellow just to nod to," he said, "I
don't see that's any reason why I should talk about him to you
newspaper fellows. You'd better get hold of his relations, if you
can find them."

"But, my dear Mr. Coulson," the young man said, "we haven't any
idea where they are to be found, and in the meantime you can't
imagine what reports are in circulation."

"Guess I can figure them out pretty well," Mr. Coulson remarked
with a smile. "We've got an evening press of our own in New
York."

The reporter nodded.

"Well," he said, "They'd be able to stretch themselves out a bit
on a case like this. You see," he continued confidentially, "we
are up against something almost unique. Here is an astounding and
absolutely inexplicable murder, committed in a most dastardly
fashion by a person who appears to have vanished from the face of
the earth. Not a single thing is known about the victim except
his name. We do not know whether he came to England on business
or pleasure. He may, in short, have been any one from a
millionaire to a newspaper man. Judging from his special train,"
the reporter concluded with a smile, "and the money which was
found upon him, I imagine that he was certainly not the latter."

Mr. Coulson went on his way toward the exit from the station,
puffing contentedly at his big cigar.

"Well," he said to his companion, who showed not the slightest
disposition to leave his side, "it don't seem to me that there's
much worth repeating about poor Fynes,--much that I knew, at any
rate. Still, if you like to get in a cab with me and ride as far
as the Savoy, I'll tell you what I can."

"You are a brick, sir," the young man declared. "Haven't you any
luggage, though?"

"I checked what I had through from Liverpool to the hotel," Mr.
Coulson answered. "I can't stand being fussed around by all these
porters, and having to go and take pot luck amongst a pile of
other people's baggage. We'll just take one of these two-wheeled
sardine tins that you people call hansoms, and get round to the
hotel as quick as we can. There are a few pals of mine generally
lunch in the cafe there, and they mayn't all have cleared out if
we look alive."

They started a moment or two later. Mr. Coulson leaned forward
and, folding his arms upon the apron of the cab, looked about him
with interest.

"Say," he remarked, removing his cigar to the corner of his mouth
in order to facilitate conversation, "this old city of yours
don't change any."

"Not up in this part, perhaps," the reporter agreed. "We've some
fine new buildings down toward the Strand."

Mr. Coulson nodded.

"Well," he said, "I guess you don't want to be making
conversation. You want to know about Hamilton Fynes. I was just
acquainted with him, and that's a fact, but I reckon you'll have
to find some one who knows a good deal more than I do before
you'll get the stuff you want for your paper."

"The slightest particulars are of interest to us just now," the
reporter reminded him.

Mr. Coulson nodded.

"Hamilton Fynes," he said, "so far as I knew him, was a quiet,
inoffensive sort of creature, who has been drawing a regular
salary from the State for the last fifteen years and saving half
of it. He has been coming over to Europe now and then, and though
he was a good, steady chap enough, he liked his fling when he was
over here, and between you and me, he was the greatest crank I
ever struck. I met him in London a matter of three years ago, and
he wanted to go to Paris. There were two cars running at the
regular time, meeting the boat at Dover. Do you think he would
have anything to do with them? Not he! He hired a special train
and went down like a prince."

"What did he do that for?" the reporter asked.

"Why, because he was a crank, sir," Mr. Coulson answered
confidentially. "There was no other reason at all. Take this last
voyage on the Lusitania, now. He spoke to me the first day out
because he couldn't help it, but for pretty well the rest of the
journey he either kept down in his stateroom or, when he came up
on deck, he avoided me and everybody else. When he did talk, his
talk was foolish. He was a good chap at his work, I believe, but
he was a crank. Seemed to me sometimes as though that humdrum
life of his had about turned his brain. The last day out he was
fidgeting all the time; kept looking at his watch, studying the
chart, and asking the sailors questions. Said he wanted to get up
in time to take a girl to lunch on Thursday. It was just for that
reason that he scuttled off the boat without a word to any of us,
and rushed up to London."

"But he had letters, Mr. Coulson," the reporter reminded him,
"from some one in Washington, to the captain of the steamer and
to the station-master of the London and North Western Railway. It
seems rather odd that he should have provided himself with these,
doesn't it?"

"They were easy enough to get," Mr. Coulson answered. "He wasn't
a worrying sort of chap, Fynes wasn't. He did his work, year in
and year out, and asked no favors. The consequence was that when
he asked a queer one he got it all right. It's easier to get a
pull over there than it is here, you know."

"This is all very interesting," the reporter said, "and I am sure
I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Coulson. Now can you tell me of
anything in the man's life or way of living likely to provoke
enmity on the part of any one? This murder was such a
cold-blooded affair."

"There I'm stuck," Mr. Coulson admitted. "There's only one thing
I can tell you, and that is that I believe he had a lot more
money on him than the amount mentioned in your newspapers this
morning. My own opinion is that he was murdered for what he'd
got. A smart thief would say that a fellow who takes a special
tug off the steamer and a special train to town was a man worth
robbing. How the thing was done I don't know--that's for your
police to find out--but I reckon that whoever killed him did it
for his cash."

The reporter sighed. He was, after all, a little disappointed.
Mr. Coulson was obviously a man of common sense. His words were
clearly pronounced, and his reasoning sound. They had reached the
courtyard of the hotel now, and the reporter began to express his
gratitude.

"My first drink on English soil," Mr. Coulson said, as he handed
his suitcase to the hall-porter, "is always--"

"It's on me," the young man declared quickly. "I owe you a good
deal more than drinks, Mr. Coulson."

"Well, come along, anyway," the latter remarked. "I guess my room
is all right, porter?"--turning to the man who stood by his side,
bag in hand. "I am Mr. James B. Coulson of New York, and I wrote
on ahead. I'll come round to the office and register presently."

They made their way to the American bar. The newspaper man and
his new friend drank together and, skillfully prompted by the
former, the conversation drifted back to the subject of Hamilton
Fynes. There was nothing else to be learned, however, in the way
of facts. Mr. Coulson admitted that he had been a little nettled
by his friend's odd manner during the voyage, and the strange way
he had of keeping to himself.

"But, after all," he wound up, "Fynes was a crank, when all's
said and done. We are all cranks, more or less,--all got our weak
spot, I mean. It was secretiveness with our unfortunate friend.
He liked to play at being a big personage in a mysterious sort of
way, and the poor chap's paid for it," he added with a sigh.

The reporter left his new-made friend a short time afterwards,
and took a hansom to his office. His newspaper at once issued a
special edition, giving an interview between their representative
and Mr. James B. Coulson, a personal friend of the murdered man.
It was, after all, something of a scoop, for not one of the other
passengers had been found who was in a position to say anything
at all about him. The immediate effect of the interview, however,
was to procure for Mr. Coulson a somewhat bewildering succession
of callers. The first to arrive was a gentleman who introduced
himself as Mr. Jacks, and whose card, sent back at first, was
retendered in a sealed envelope with Scotland Yard scrawled
across the back of it. Mr. Coulson, who was in the act of
changing his clothes, interviewed Mr. Jacks in his chamber.

"Mr. Coulson," the Inspector said, "I am visiting you on behalf
of Scotland Yard. We understand that you had some acquaintance
with Mr. 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

CHAPTER VII. A FATAL DESPATCH

Mr. Coulson found his two visitors in the lounge of the hotel. He
had removed all traces of his journey, and was attired in a
Tuxedo dinner coat, a soft-fronted shirt, and a neatly arranged
black tie. He wore broad-toed patent boots and double lines of
braid down the outsides of his trousers. The page boy, who was on
the lookout for him, conducted him to the corner where Miss
Penelope Morse and her companion were sitting talking together.
The latter rose at his approach, and Mr. Coulson summed him up
quickly,--a well-bred, pleasant-mannered, exceedingly athletic
young Englishman, who was probably not such a fool as he
looked,--that is, from Mr. Coulson's standpoint, who was not used
to the single eyeglass and somewhat drawling enunciation.

"Mr. Coulson, isn't it?" the young man asked, accepting the
other's outstretched hand. "We are awfully sorry to disturb you,
so soon after your arrival, too, but the fact is that this young
lady, Miss Penelope Morse,"--Mr. Coulson bowed,--"was exceedingly
anxious to make your acquaintance. You Americans are such birds
of passage that she was afraid you might have moved on if she
didn't look you up at once."

Penelope herself intervened.

"I'm afraid you're going to think me a terrible nuisance, Mr.
Coulson!" she exclaimed. Mr. Coulson, although he did not call
himself a lady's man, was nevertheless human enough to appreciate
the fact that the young lady's face was piquant and her smile
delightful. She was dressed with quiet but elegant simplicity.
The perfume of the violets at her waistband seemed to remind him
of his return to civilization.

"Well, I'll take my risks of that, Miss Morse," he declared. "If
you'll only let me know what I can do for you--"

"It's about poor Mr. Hamilton Fynes," she explained. "I took up
the evening paper only half an hour ago, and read your interview
with the reporter. I simply couldn't help stopping to ask whether
you could give me any further particulars about that horrible
affair. I didn't dare to come here all alone, so I asked Sir
Charles to come along with me."

Mr. Coulson, being invited to do so, seated himself on the lounge
by the young lady's side. He leaned a little forward with a hand
on either knee.

"I don't exactly know what I can tell you," he remarked. "I take
it, then, that you were well acquainted with Mr. Fynes?"

"I used to know him quite well," Penelope answered, "and
naturally I am very much upset. When I read in the paper an
account of your interview with the reporter, I could see at once
that you were not telling him everything. Why should you, indeed?
A man does not want every detail of his life set out in the
newspapers just because he has become connected with a terrible
tragedy."

"You're a very sensible young lady, Miss Morse, if you will allow
me to say so," Mr. Coulson declared. "You were expecting to see
something of Mr. Fynes over here, then?"

"I had an appointment to lunch with him today," she answered. "He
sent me a marconigram before he arrived at Queenstown."

"Is that so?" Mr. Coulson exclaimed. "Well, well!"

"I actually went to the restaurant," Penelope continued, "without
knowing anything of this. I can't understand it at all, even now.
Mr. Fynes always seemed to me such a harmless sort of person, so
unlikely to have enemies, or anything of that sort. Don't you
think so, Mr. Coulson?"

"Well," that gentleman answered, "to tell you the honest truth,
Miss Morse, I'm afraid I am going to disappoint you a little. I
wasn't over well acquainted with Mr. Fynes, although a good many
people seemed to fancy that we were kind of bosom friends. That
newspaper man, for instance, met me at the station and stuck to
me like a leech; drove down here with me, and was willing to
stand all the liquor I could drink. Then there was a gentleman
from Scotland Yard, who was in such a hurry that he came to see
me in my bedroom. HE had a sort of an idea that I had been
brought up from infancy with Hamilton Fynes and could answer a
sheaf of questions a yard long. As soon as I got rid of him, up
comes that page boy and brings your card."

"It does seem too bad, Mr. Coulson," Penelope declared, raising
her wonderful eyes to his and smiling sympathetically. "You have
really brought it upon yourself, though, to some extent, haven't
you, by answering so many questions for this Comet man?"

"Those newspaper fellows," Mr. Coulson remarked, "are wonders.
Before that youngster had finished with me, I began to feel that
poor old Fynes and I had been like brothers all our lives. As a
matter of fact, Miss Morse, I expect you knew him at least as
well as I did."

She nodded her head thoughtfully.

"Hamilton Fynes came from the village in Massachusetts where I
was brought up. I've known him all my life."

Mr. Coulson seemed a little startled.

"I didn't understand," he said thoughtfully, "that Fynes had any
very intimate friends over this side."

Penelope shook her head.

"I don't mean to imply that we have been intimate lately," she
said. "I came to Europe nine years ago, and since then, of
course, I have not seen him often. Perhaps it was the fact that
he should have thought of me, and that I was actually expecting
to have lunch with him today, which made me feel this thing so
acutely."

"Why, that's quite natural," Mr. Coulson declared, leaning back a
little and crossing his legs. "Somehow we seem to read about
these things in the papers and they don't amount to such a lot,
but when you know the man and were expecting to see him, as you
were, why, then it comes right home to you. There's something
about a murder," Mr. Coulson concluded, "which kind of takes hold
of you if you've ever even shaken hands with either of the
parties concerned in it."

"Did you see much of the poor fellow during the voyage?" Sir
Charles asked.

"No, nor any one else," Mr. Coulson replied. "I don't think he
was seasick, but he was miserably unsociable, and he seldom left
his cabin. I doubt whether there were half a dozen people on
board who would have recognized him afterwards as a
fellow-passenger."

"He seems to have been a secretive sort of person," Sir Charles
remarked.

"He was that," Mr. Coulson admitted. "Never seemed to care to
talk about himself or his own business. Not that he had much to
talk about," he added reflectively. "Dull sort of life, his. So
many hours of work, so many hours of play; so many dollars a
month, and after it's all over, so many dollars pension. Wouldn't
suit all of us, Sir Charles, eh?"

"I fancy not," Somerfield admitted. "Perhaps he kicked over the
traces a bit when he was over this side. You Americans generally
seem to find your way about--in Paris, especially."

Mr. Coulson shook his head doubtfully.

"There wasn't much kicking over the traces with poor old Fynes,"
he said. "He hadn't got it in him."

Somerfield scratched his chin thoughtfully and looked at
Penelope.

"Scarcely seems possible, does it," he remarked, "that a man
leading such a quiet sort of life should make enemies."

"I don't believe he had any," Mr. Coulson asserted.

"He didn't seem nervous on the way over, did he?" Penelope
asked,--"as though he were afraid of something happening?"

Mr. Coulson shook his head.

"No more than usual," he answered. "I guess your police over here
aren't quite so smart as ours, or they'd have been on the track
of this thing before now. But you can take it from me that when
the truth comes out you'll find that our poor friend has paid the
penalty of going about the world like a crank."

"A what?" Somerfield asked doubtfully.

"A crank," Mr. Coulson repeated vigorously. "It wasn't much I
knew of Hamilton Fynes, but I knew that much. He was one of those
nervous, stand-off sort of persons who hated to have people talk
to him and yet was always doing things to make them talk about
him. I was over in Europe with him not so long ago, and he went
on in the same way. Took a special train to Dover when there
wasn't any earthly reason for it; travelled with a valet and a
courier, when he had no clothes for the valet to look after, and
spoke every European language better than his courier. This time
the poor fellow's paid for his bit of vanity. Naturally, any one
would think he was a millionaire, travelling like that. I guess
they boarded the train somehow, or lay hidden in it when it
started, and relieved him of a good bit of his savings."

"But his money was found upon him," Somerfield objected.

"Some of it," Mr. Coulson answered,--"some of it. That's just
about the only thing that I do know of my own. I happened to see
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 an