“I’m fresh in this,” he said. “I got some information this afternoon, and the chief sent me over to see you on account of it. We had better not discuss possibilities, I suppose? The thing’s too big. The chief’s almost off his head. Is there any chance, do you think, Coulson, that this was an ordinary robbery? I am not sure that the special train wasn’t a mistake.”
“None whatever,” Coulson declared.
“How do you know?” his companion asked quickly.
“Well, I’ve lied to those reporters and chaps,” Coulson admitted,—“lied with a purpose, of course, as you people can understand. The money found upon Fynes was every penny he had when he left Liverpool.”
The young man set his teeth.
“It’s something to know this, at any rate,” he declared. “You did right, Coulson, to put up that bluff. Now about the duplicates?”
“They are in my suitcase,” Coulson answered, “and according to the way things are going, I shan’t be over sorry to get rid of them. Will you take them with you?”
“Why, sure!” Vanderpole answered. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“You had better wait right here, then,” Coulson said, “I’ll fetch them.”
He made his way up to his room, undid his dressing bag, which was fastened only with an ordinary lock, and from between two shirts drew out a small folded packet, no bigger than an ordinary letter. It was a curious circumstance that he used only one hand for the search and with the other gripped the butt of a small revolver. There was no one around, however, nor was he disturbed in any way. In a few minutes he returned to the bar smoking room, where the young man was still waiting, and handed him the letter.