talk to Goode, first."

"Yes. That would be smart," Gladys Fleming agreed. "After all, he's
responsible for selling the collection." She crossed to the desk and sat
down in Rand's chair while she wrote out the check and a short letter of
authorization, then she returned to her own seat.

"There's another thing," she continued, lighting a fresh cigarette.
"Because of the manner of Mr. Fleming's death, the girls have a horror of
the collection almost--but not quite--as strong as their desire to get
the best possible price for it."

"Yes. I'd heard that Mr. Fleming had been killed in a firearms accident,
last November," Rand mentioned.

"It was with one of his collection-pieces," the widow replied. "One
he'd bought just that day; a Confederate-made Colt-type percussion .36
revolver. He'd brought it home with him, simply delighted with it, and
started cleaning it at once. He could hardly wait until dinner was over
to get back to work on it.

"We'd finished dinner about seven, or a little after. At about half-past,
Nelda went out somewhere in the coupé. Anton had gone up to his
laboratory, in the attic--he's one of these fortunates whose work is also
his hobby; he's a biochemist and dietitian--and Lane was in the gunroom,
on the second floor, working on his new revolver. Fred Dunmore was having
a bath, and Geraldine and I had taken our coffee into the east parlor.
Geraldine put on the radio, and we were listening to it.

"It must have been about 7:47 or 7:48, because the program had changed