In spite of his effeminate appearance and over-refined manner, the young
fellow really knew arms. The conversation passed from Confederate
revolvers to the arms of the Civil War in general, and they were
discussing the changes in tactics occasioned by the introduction of the
revolver and the repeating carbine when the door from the house opened
and Arnold Rivers appeared on the landing.

He looked older than when Rand had last seen him. His hair was thinner on
top and grayer at the temples. Never particularly robust, he had lost
weight, and his face was thinner and more hollow-cheeked. His mouth still
had the old curve of supercilious insolence, and he was still smoking
with the six-inch carved ivory cigarette-holder which Rand remembered.

He looked his visitor over carefully from the doorway, decided that he
was not soliciting magazine subscriptions or selling Fuller brushes, and
came down the steps. As he did, he must have recognized Rand; he shifted
the cigarette-holder to his left hand and extended his right.

"Mr. Rand, isn't it?" he asked. "I thought I knew you. It's been some
years since you've been around here."

"I've been a lot of places in the meantime," Rand said.

"You were here last in October, '41, weren't you?" Rivers thought for a
moment. "You bought a Highlander, then. By Alexander Murdoch, of Doune,
wasn't it?"

"No; Andrew Strahan, of Edzel," Rand replied.

Rivers snapped his fingers. "That's right! I sold both of those pistols