“Never mind the trees, Gadgem.  We will take those up later on.  Tell me what I can do for you—­what do you want?”

“A gun, sir—­a plain, straightforward gun—­one that can be relied upon.  Not for mySELF, sir—­I am not murderously inclined—­but for a friend who has commissioned me—­the exact word, sir—­although the percentage is small—­comMISsioned me to acquire for him a fowling piece of the pattern, weight, and build of those belonging to St. George W. Temple, Esquire, of Kennedy Square-and so I made bold, sir, to—­”

“You won’t find it, Gadgem,” replied St. George, buttering the toast.  “I have two that I have shot with for years that haven’t their match in the State.  Todd, bring me one of those small bird guns—­there, behind the door in the rack.  Hand it to Mr. Gadgem.  Now, can you see by the shape of—­take hold of it, man.  But do you know anything about guns?”

“Only enough to keep away from their muzzles, sir.”  He had it in his hand now—­holding it by the end of the barrel, Todd instinctively dodging out of the way, although he knew it was not loaded.  “No, sir, I don’t know anything—­not the very SMALLest thing about guns.  There is nothing, in fact, I know so little about as a gun—­that is why I have come to you.”

St. George recovered the piece and laid it as gently on the table beside his plate as if it had been a newly laid egg.

“No, I don’t think you do,” he laughed, “or you wouldn’t hold it upside down.  Now go on and give me the rest.”

Gadgem emitted a chuckle—­the nearest he ever came to a laugh:  “To have it go on, sir, is infinitely preferable than to have it go off, sir.  He-he!  And you have, I believe you said, two of these highly valuable implements of death?”

“Yes, five altogether—­two of this kind.  Here, Todd”—­and he picked up the gun—­“put it back behind the door.”

Gadgem felt in his inside pocket, produced and consulted a memorandum with the air of a man who wanted to be entirely sure, and in a bland voice said: 

“I should think at your time of life—­if you will permit me, sir—­that one less gun would not seriously inconvenience you.  Would you permit me, sir, to hope that—­”

St. George looked up from his plate and a peculiar expression flitted across his face.

“You mean you want to buy it?”

The bill collector made a little movement forward and scrutinized St. George’s face with the eye of a hawk.  For a man of Temple’s kidney to be without a fowling piece was like a king being without a crown.  This was the crucial moment.  Gadgem knew Temple’s class, and knew just how delicately he must be handled.  If St. George’s pride, or his love for his favorite chattels—­things personal to himself—­should overcome him, the whole scheme would fall to the ground.  That any gentleman of his standing had ever seen the inside of a pawn-shop in his life was unthinkable.  This was what Gadgem faced.  As for Todd, he had not drawn a full breath since Gadgem opened his case.