hat romance lay behind yon satin slipper? What _grande dame_
had smiled behind that ivory fan? What meant that tarnished silver
mask?

The old French proprietor was evidently all things from a pawnbroker to
an art collector; for most of the jewelry was in excellent order and
the pictures possessed value far beyond the intrinsic. He was waiting
upon a customer, and the dingy light that shone down on his bald bumpy
head made it look for all the world like an ill-used billiard-ball. He
was exhibiting revolvers.

From the shining metal of the small arms, my glance traveled to the
face of the prospective buyer. It was an interesting face, clean-cut,
beardless, energetic, but the mouth impressed me as being rather hard.
Doubtless he felt the magnetism of my scrutiny, for he suddenly looked
around. The expression on his face was not one to induce me to throw
my arms around his neck and declare I should be glad to make his
acquaintance. It was a scowl. He was in evening dress, and I could
see that he knew very well how to wear it. All this was but momentary.
He took up a revolver and balanced it on his palm.

By and by the proprietor came sidling along behind the cases, the
slip-slip fashion of his approach informing me that he wore slippers.

"Do you keep costumes?" I asked.

"Anything you like, sir, from a crusader to a modern gentleman,"--with
grim and appropriate irony. "What is it you are in search of--a
masquerade costume?'"

"Only a grey mask," I answered. "I am going to a masked ball to-night
as a Grey Capuchin, and I want a mask that will match my robe."

"Your wants are simple."

From a shelf he brought down a box, took off the cover, and left me to
make my selection. Soon I found what I desired and laid it aside,
waiting for Monsieur Friard to return. Again I observed the other
customer. There is always a mystery to be solved and a story to be
told, when a man makes the purchase of a pistol in a pawnshop. A man
who buys a pistol for the sake of protection does so in the light of
day, and in the proper place, a gun-shop. He does not haunt the
pawnbroker in the dusk of evening. Well, it was none of my business;
doubtless he knew what he was doing. I coughed suggestively, and
Friard came slipping in my direction again.

"This is what I want. How much?" I inquired.

[Illustration: "This is what I want. How much?" I inquired.]

"Fifty cents; it has never been worn."

I drew out my wallet