Rivers snapped his fingers. "That's right! I sold both of those pistols
at about the same time; a gentleman in Chicago got the Murdoch. The
Strahan had a star-pierced lobe on the hammer. Did you ever get anybody
to translate the Gaelic inscription on the barrel?"
"You've a memory like Jim Farley," Rand flattered. "The inscription was
the clan slogan of the Camerons; something like: _Sons of the hound, come
and get flesh!_ I won't attempt the original."
"Mr. Rand just bought 6524, the Leech & Rigdon .36," Gillis interjected,
handing Rivers the card and the money. Rivers looked at both, saw how
much Rand had been taken for, and nodded.
"A nice item," he faintly praised, as though anything selling for less
than a hundred dollars was so much garbage. "Considering the condition in
which Confederate arms are usually found, it's really first-rate. I think
you'll like it, Mr. Rand."
The telephone rang, Cecil Gillis answered it, listened for a moment, and
then said: "For you, Mr. Rivers; long distance from Milwaukee."
Rivers's face lit with the beatific smile of a cat at a promising
mouse-hole. "Ah, excuse me, Mr. Rand." He crossed to the desk, picked
up the phone and spoke into it. "This is Arnold Rivers," he said, much
as Edward Murrow used to say, _This--is London!_ The telephone sputtered
for a moment.
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