"One turn to the right," he
repeated mentally, "two to the left,
and the place is at the corner of the
other side of the street."
He managed to reach it at last,
but it had been a slow, and therefore,
long journey. All the gas-jets
the little shop owned were lighted,
but even under their flare the articles
in the window--the one or two
once cheaply gaudy dresses and
shawls and men's garments--hung
in the haze like the dreary, dangling
ghosts of things recently executed.
Among watches and forlorn pieces
of old-fashioned jewelry and odds and
ends, the pistol lay against the folds
of a dirty gauze shawl. There it
was. It would have been annoying
if someone else had been beforehand
and had bought it.
Inside the shop more dangling
spectres hung and the place was
almost dark. It was a shabby pawnshop,
and the man lounging behind
the counter was a shabby man with
an unshaven, unamiable face.
"I want to look at that pistol in
the right-hand corner of your window,"
Antony Dart said.
The pawnbroker uttered a sound
something between a half-laugh and
a grunt. He took the weapon from
the window.
Antony Dart examined it critically.
He must make quite sure of
it. He made no further remark.
He felt he had done with speech.
Being told the price asked for the
purchase, he drew out his purse and
took the money from it. After
making the payment he noted that
he still possessed a five-pound note
and some sovereigns.
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