furniture--a davenport, three or four deep chairs facing the fire, a low
cocktail-table, a cellarette, and, in the far corner, a big desk.

As Rand went toward the rear, a young man rose from one of the chairs,
laid aside a magazine, and advanced to meet him. He didn't exactly
harmonize with all the lethal array around him; he would have looked more
at home presiding over an establishment devoted to ladies' items. His
costume ran to pastel shades, he had large and soulful blue eyes and
prettily dimpled cheeks, and his longish blond hair was carefully
disordered into a windblown effect.

"Oh, good afternoon," he greeted. "Is there anything in particular you're
interested in, or would you like to just look about?"

"Mostly look about," Rand said. "Is Mr. Rivers in?"

"Mr. Rivers is having luncheon. He'll be finished before long, if you
care to wait.... Have you ever been here before?"

"Not for some time," Rand said. "When I was here last, there was a young
fellow named Jordan, or Gordon, or something like that."

"Oh. He was before my time." The present functionary introduced himself
as Cecil Gillis. Rand gave his name and shook hands with him. Young
Gillis wanted to know if Rand was a collector.

"In a small way. General-pistol collector," Rand told him. "Have you many
Colts, now?"

There was a whole table devoted to Colts. No spurious Whitneyville