"But, Mrs. Fleming," he was expostulating. "There surely must be somebody
else.... After all, you'll have to admit that this isn't the sort of work
this agency handles."

The would-be client released a series of smoke-rings and watched them
float up toward the air-outlet at the office ceiling. It spoke well for
Rand's ability to subordinate esthetic to business considerations that he
was trying to give her a courteous and humane brush-off. She made even
the Petty and Varga girls seem credible. Her color-scheme was blue and
gold; blue eyes, and a blue tailored outfit that would have looked severe
on a less curvate figure, and a charmingly absurd little blue hat perched
on a mass of golden hair. If Rand had been Charles II, she could have
walked out of there with a duchess's coronet, and Nell Gwyn would have
been back selling oranges.

"Why isn't it?" she countered. "Your door's marked _Tri-State Detective
Agency, Jefferson Davis Rand, Investigation and Protection_. Well, I want
to know how much the collection's worth, and who'll pay the closest to
it. That's investigation, isn't it? And I want protection from being
swindled. And don't tell me you can't do it. You're a pistol-collector,
yourself; you have one of the best small collections in the state. And
you're a recognized authority on early pistols; I've read some of your
articles in the _Rifleman_. If you can't handle this, I don't know who
can."

Rand's frown deepened. He wondered how much Gladys Fleming knew about the
principles of General Semantics. Even if she didn't know anything, she
was still edging him into an untenable position. He hastily shifted from
the attempt to identify his business with the label, "private detective