“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.