It was a vodka Martini, and very good. "You know, none of that
crowd are millionaires. Adam Trehearne, who's the plutocrat of the bunch,
isn't so filthy rich he doesn't know what to do with all his money--what
the tax-collectors leave of it--and the rest of them have to figure
pretty closely. The most they could possibly scratch together was
twenty-two thousand. So I put four thousand into the pot, myself,
bringing the total to five hundred over the Kendall offer, and hastily
declared the collection sold. Of course, my getting into it meant that
much less for everybody else, but five-sixths of a collection is better
than no pistols at all. I imagine Colin MacBride is honing up his
_sgian-dhu_ for me because I got that big Whitneyville Walker Colt, but
what the hell; he got the cased pair of Paterson .34's, and the Texas .40
with the ramming-lever."
"Why, I think the division was fair enough," Gladys said. "They'd agreed
to take your valuation, hadn't they? And all that slide-rule and
comptometer business.... But Jeff--four thousand dollars?" she queried.
"You only got five from me, and you can't run a detective agency on old
pistols."
Rand grinned as he set down his empty glass. Gladys refilled it from the
shaker.
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