t as he passed Quandrill's, the
local maker of guns and fishing-rods, a thought struck him. He stopped
and entered the shop.

"Good-morning," he said to the gunsmith, who stood behind the counter;
"have you any pistols? I want one small enough to carry in the pocket,
but yet something more powerful than a toy."

Mr Quandrill took off his spectacles.

"Ah," he said, tapping the counter with them meditatively. "Let me see.
Mr Westray, is it not, the architect at the minster?"

"Yes," Westray answered. "I require a pistol for some experiments. It
should carry a fairly heavy bullet."

"Oh, just so," the man said, with an air of some relief, as Westray's
coolness convinced him that he was not contemplating suicide. "Just so,
I see; some experiments. Well, in that case, I suppose, you would not
require any special facilities for loading again quickly, otherwise I
should have recommended one of these," and he took up a weapon from the
counter. "They are new-fangled things from America, revolving pistols
they call them. You can fire them four times running, you see, as quick
as you like," and he snapped the piece to show how well it worked.

Westray handled the pistol, and looked at the barrels.

"Yes," he said, "that will suit my purpose very well, though it is
rather large to carry in the pocket."

"Oh, you want it for the pocket," the gunmaker said with renewed
surprise in his tone.

"Yes; I told you that already. I may have to carry it about with me.
Still, I think this will do. Could you kindly load it for me now?"

"You are sure it's quite safe," said the gunmaker.

"I ought to ask _you_ that," Westray rejoined with a smile. "Do you
mean it may go off accidentally in my pocket?"

"Oh no, it's safe enough that way," said the gunmaker. "It won't go off
unless you pull the trigger." And he loaded the four barrels, measuring
out the powder and shot carefully, and ramming in the wads. "You'll be
wanting more powder and shot than this, I suppose," he said.

"Very likely," rejoined the architect, "but I can call for that later."

He found a heavy country fly waiting for him at Lytchett, the little
wayside station which was sometimes used by people going to Fording. It
is a seven-mile drive from the station to the house, but he was so
occupied in his own reflections, that he was conscious of nothing till
the carriage pulled up at the entrance of the park. Here he stopped for
a moment while the lod