too."

"Yes. You'll find a hundred wheel locks for every matchlock, and yet
there must have been a hundred matchlocks made for every wheel lock."

"Matchlocks were cheap, and wheel locks were expensive," MacBride
suggested. He spoke with the faintest trace of Highland accent.
"Naturally, they got better care."

"It would take a Scot to think of that," Karen said. "Now, you take a
Scot who collects guns, and you have something!"

"That's only part of it," Rand said. "I believe that by the last quarter
of the seventeenth century, most of the matchlocks that were lying around
had been scrapped, and the barrels used in making flintlocks. Hester
Prynne, over there, could easily have started her career as a matchlock.
And then, a great many matchlocks went into the West African slave and
ivory trade, and were promptly ruined by the natives."

"Yes, and I seem to recall having seen Spanish and French miguelet
muskets that looked as though they had been altered directly from
matchlock, retaining the original stock and even the original
lock-plate," Trehearne added.

"So have I, come to think of it." Rand stole a glance at his wrist-watch.
It was nine five; he was wishing Stephen Gresham would put in an
appearance.

MacBride and Trehearne joined Pierre and the girls in showing him
Gresham's collection; evidently they all knew it almost as well as their
own. After a while, Irene Gresham ushered in Philip Cabot. He, too, was
past middle age, with prematurely white hair and a thin, scholarly face.
According to Hollywood type-casting, he might have been a professor, or a
judge, or a Boston Brahmin, but never a stockbroker.

Irene Gresham wanted to know what everybody wanted to drink. Rand wanted
Bourbon and plain water; MacBride voted for Jamaica rum; Trehearne and
Cabot favored brandy and soda, and Pierre and the girls wanted Bacardi
and Coca-Cola.

"And Stephen'll want rye and soda, when he gets here," Irene said. "Come
on, girls; let's rustle up the drinks."

Before they returned, Stephen Gresham came in, lighting a cigar. It was
just nine twenty-two.

"Well, I see everybody's here," he said. "No; where's Karen?"

Pierre told him. A few minutes later the women returned, carrying bottles
and glasses; when the flurry of drink-mixing had subsided, they all sat
down.

"Let's get the business over first," Gresham suggested. "I suppose you've
gone over the collection already, Jeff?"

"Yes, and first of all, I want to