know something. When was the last that
any of you saw it?"

Gresham and Pierre had been in Fleming's gunroom just two days before the
fatal "accident."

"And can you tell me if the big Whitneyville Colt was still there, then?"
Rand asked. "Or the Rappahannock Forge, or the Collier flintlock, or the
Hall?"

"Why, of course ... My God, aren't they there now?" Gresham demanded.

Rand shook his head. "And if Fleming still had them two days before he
was killed, then somebody's been weeding out the collection since. Doing
it very cleverly, too," he added. "You know how that stuff's arranged,
and how conspicuous a missing pistol would be. Well, when I was going
over the collection, I found about two dozen pieces of the most utter
trash, things Lane Fleming wouldn't have allowed in the house, all
hanging where some really good item ought to have been." He took a paper
from his pocket and read off a list of the dubious items, interpolating
comments on the condition, and a list of the real rarities which Gresham
had mentioned the day before, which were now missing.

"All that good stuff was there the last time I saw the collection,"
Gresham said. "What do you say, Pierre?"

"I had the Hall pistol in my hands," Pierre said. "And I remember looking
at the Rappahannock Forge."

Trehearne broke in to ask how many English dog-locks there were, and if
the snaphaunce Highlander and the big all-steel wheel lock were still
there. At the same time, Cabot was inquiring about the Springfield 1818
and the Virginia Manufactory pistols.

"I'll have a complete, itemized list in a few days," Rand said. "In the
meantime, I'd like a couple of you to look at the collection and help me
decide what's missing. I'm going to try to catch the thief, and then get
at the fence through him."

"Think Rivers might have gotten the pistols?" Gresham asked. "He's the
crookedest dealer I know of."

"He's the crookedest dealer anybody knows of," Rand amended. "The only
thing, he's a little too anxious to buy the collection, for somebody
who's just skimmed off the cream."

"Ten thousand dollars isn't much in the way of anxiety," Cabot said. "I'd
call that a nominal bid, to avoid suspicion."

"The dope's changed a little on that." Rand brought him up to date.
"Rivers's offer is now twenty-five thousand."

There was a stunned hush, followed by a gust of exclamations.

"Guid Lorrd!" The Scots accent fairly curdled on Colin MacBride's tongue.
"We cann