his little feet observed:

". . . I would advise you, M'sieur, to take this superb revolver,
the Smith and Wesson pattern, the last word in the science of
firearms: triple-action, with ejector, kills at six hundred paces,
central sight. Let me draw your attention, M'sieu, to the beauty
of the finish. The most fashionable system, M'sieu. We sell a dozen
every day for burglars, wolves, and lovers. Very correct and powerful
action, hits at a great distance, and kills wife and lover with one
bullet. As for suicide, M'sieu, I don't know a better pattern."

The shopman pulled and cocked the trigger, breathed on the barrel,
took aim, and affected to be breathless with delight. Looking at
his ecstatic countenance, one might have supposed that he would
readily have put a bullet through his brains if he had only possessed
a revolver of such a superb pattern as a Smith-Wesson.

"And what price?" asked Sigaev.

"Forty-five roubles, M'sieu."

"Mm! . . . that's too dear for me."

"In that case, M'sieu, let me offer you another make, somewhat
cheaper. Here, if you'll kindly look, we have an immense choice,
at all prices. . . . Here, for instance, this revolver of the
Lefaucher pattern costs only eighteen roubles, but . . ." (the
shopman pursed up his face contemptuously) ". . . but, M'sieu, it's
an old-fashioned make. They are only bought by hysterical ladies
or the mentally deficient. To commit suicide or shoot one's wife
with a Lefaucher revolver is considered bad form nowadays. Smith-Wesson
is the only pattern that's correct style."

"I don't want to shoot myself or to kill anyone," said Sigaev, lying
sullenly. "I am buying it simply for a country cottage . . . to
frighten away burglars. . . ."

"That's not our business, what object you have in buying it." The
shopman smiled, dropping his eyes discreetly. "If we were to
investigate the object in each case, M'sieu, we should have to close
our shop. To frighten burglars Lefaucher is not a suitable pattern,
M'sieu, for it goes off with a faint, muffled sound. I would suggest
Mortimer's, the so-called duelling pistol. . . ."

"Shouldn't I challenge him to a duel?" flashed through Sigaev's
mind. "It's doing him too much honour, though. . . . Beasts like
that are killed like dogs. . . ."

The shopman, swaying gracefully and tripping to and fro on his
little feet, still smiling and chattering, displayed before him a
heap of revolvers. The most inviting and impressive of all