an antique-shop on the other side of
Rosemont; he doesn't sell anything but guns and swords and that sort of
thing," Kirchner said. "He was here, making inquiries about it, and my
clerk showed it to him, and then he started making offers for it--first
ten dollars, and then fifteen, and then twenty; he got up as high as
sixty dollars. I suppose it's worth a couple of hundred."

It was probably worth about thirty-five. Rand was intrigued by this
second instance of an un-Rivers-like willingness to spare no expense to
get possession of a .36-caliber percussion revolver.

"Did he have it in his hands?" he asked.

"Oh, yes; he looked it over carefully. I suppose he thought he could get
a lot of money for it, because of the accident, and Mr. Fleming being
such a prominent man," Kirchner suggested.

Rand allowed himself to be struck by an idea.

"Say, you know, that _would_ make it worth more, at that!" he exclaimed.
"What do you know! I never thought of that.... Look, Mr. Kirchner; I'm
supposed to get as much money for these pistols, for the heirs, as I can.
How would you like to give me a letter, vouching for this as the pistol
Mr. Fleming killed himself with? Put in how you found it in his hand, and
mention the serial numbers, so that whoever buys it will know it's the
same revolver." He picked up the Colt and showed Kirchner the serials, on
the butt, and in front of the trigger-guard. "See, here it is: 2444."

Kirchner would be more than willing to oblige Mr. Goode's agent; he typed
out the letter himself, looked twice at the revolver to make sure of the
number, took Rand's word for the make, model, and caliber, signed it, and
even slammed his seal down on it. Rand thanked him profusely, put the
letter in his pocket, and stuck the Colt down his pants-leg.

About two miles from the county seat Rand stopped his car on a deserted
stretch of road and got out. Unwinding the wire Kirchner had wrapped
around the revolver, he picked up an empty beer-can from the ditch,
set it against an embankment, stepped back about thirty feet and began
firing. The first shot kicked up dirt a little over the can--Rand never
could be sure just how high any percussion Colt was sighted--and the
other four hit the can. He carried the revolver back to the car and put
it into the glove-box with the Leech & Rigdon.

After starting the car, he snapped on the radio, in time for the two
fifteen news-broadcast from the New Belfast station. As he had