He started to speak, but Beth grabbed his arm. "Is that animal safe?" she asked, pointing to the dog, now fiat on the ground like a bearskin rug, its head between its paws, obviously suffering agonies of shyness, while the two boys scratched and petted and stroked it, and asked questions of its owner.

"Yes," I heard the girl say, "they can run pretty fast. In rough country, they can outrun a greyhound."

"Gee!"

Logan was laughing at Beth. "I don't know how safe the animal is, my dear," he said. "But I assure you the boys are perfectly safe. Afghans are quite gentle, and this one seems to be rather a shrinking violet, even for its breed."

Beth was still looking over there. Her face had again that strange hardness that I couldn't recall having seen before.

"Why did you bring her here?"

"It's a male dog, Elizabeth," Logan said. I gave him a quick look. He was absolutely deadpan, but he was kidding her just the same, in his quiet British way.

"I wasn't referring to the dog," she said sharply.

"Oh," he said, still deadpan. "Why, I met her on the street. She asked about Peter. They used to be quite good friends, you know. Childhood playmates and all that. When I said he was home, she asked if she could come out with me. I could hardly refuse. She's had a rather rough time, you know, with both parents. She used to consider us as her second family, somewhat preferable to her own. I did not want to hurt her feelings, even if… Here comes Peter now, with his hair combed, something parental authority has never been able to accomplish. Let us go inside and leave the children to their play. Are you a martini or a bourbon man, Mr. Helm?"

"Either one," I said. "It depends on the circumstances. For the long haul, bourbon, but for a quick jolt, nothing beats a martini. I think tonight may be classed as a martini night, Mr. Logan."

"Ah, yes," he said.

"If you'll excuse me," I said. "I'll join you in a minute."

He glanced towards the door, where a colored maid, was just bringing Betsy out, scrubbed and shining in a crisp little dress.

"We'll be in the living room," Logan said, taking Beth's arm and moving tactfully away.

I gave him a glance. It occurred to me that if I didn't watch myself I was going to start liking the guy. Then I turned to greet my daughter who, it turned out, wouldn't have known me from Santa Claus, except that Santa has a beard. When I came into the high-ceilinged living room, it was empty. Then Logan came in through a door near the fireplace which apparently led into a study or office with an outside door of its own. He was carrying a tall drink. He gestured towards a stemmed glass awaiting me on the little bar in the corner. I took a quick drink out of it.

He said, "It's always a bit of a shock when they don't remember you, isn't it? I had the same experience during the war." He raised his glass. "Well, cheers, and all that sort of thing."

"Cheers," I said. "I gave them a few presents, stuff I picked up over in Europe recently. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"Where's Beth?" I asked.

He said, "I asked Elizabeth to withdraw temporarily. There is something I wish to say to you, Mr. Helm. I thought it would be easier for us to talk in her absence."

"Sure," I said. "Do we conduct the negotiations sitting or standing?"

He smiled quickly. "I say, I am making this sound terribly formal, am I not? Have a seat, by all means. I recommend that big chair by the window." He indicated the one, and started forward to take another, facing it. "Mr. Helm.."

I'd picked up my drink. As I turned from the bar, I brushed against it, and the camera in my hip pocket struck wood with a solid, quite audible thump. I reached back instinctively to check on its welfare. He was still speaking in his polite way; but at the sound, and my motion, his voice stopped and his hand moved, very fast, towards the lapels of the khaki bush jacket he was wearing.

It was a gesture that called for some violent response on my part. Fortunately, my encounter with the boy, earlier, had put a guard on my reflexes. I merely stood still and waited. His hand stopped. I drew a long, slow breath and continued reaching back without haste, drew the Leica from my pocket, and laid it on the bar.

"I thought I'd get some pictures of the kids before I left," I said.

His face was quite wooden. His hand rose to straighten the knot of his necktie. "Quite so," he said.

Then there was silence in the big room. I wanted to laugh, or to cry. I had him taped now. The practiced, instinctive gesture had told me everything I needed to know about him. That's the trouble with holsters. They give you away too badly, shoulder-holsters in particular.

Not that a shoulder-holster isn't a neat rig for carrying a heavy weapon outdoors in winter; it is. It puts the weight up where it belongs, supported by a substantial harness, instead of down on a narrow belt that tries to cut you in two. You don't have to open your coat much to get at it if you need it, and the gun doesn't freeze up in the coldest weather. A good spring shoulder rig is surprisingly comfortable, the gun is safe even if you.. stand on your head, it's protected from the elements, and it doesn't get in the way around camp the way a belt gun will. The fact that it's relatively slow needn't worry the outdoorsman, who's not apt, these days, to meet a grizzly on the trail without warning.

That's speaking of a big revolver carried by a hunter or trapper. When it comes to small, flat, inconspicuous automatics packed by competent-looking gentlemen with exaggerated British accents, you're speaking of a different matter entirely. I looked at him grimly. j knew him now. I knew what it was I'd smelled or sensed about him, that Mac hat noticed, too. It was the smell of smoke, of gunsmoke. It never quite blows away, as I ha1d reason to know.

It was funny, I suppose. This was what Beth had married, after leaving me because she couldn't stand being married to a man of violence-this slightly superannuated soldier of fortune, one of the armpit-gun boys, for God's sake!

NEITHER of us said anything. He came forward slowly and put his glass on the bar. He was a pro; he hadn't spilled a drop. Well, neither had I. He picked up the camera idly.

"Wetzlar, Germany," he read, and looked up. "Can't say I'm terribly fond of the Germans, but they do make fine optical equipment, what?"

"Right," I said.

There was a kind of sadness in his face. He was clearly wondering if he should try to explain himself to me and ask for my understanding, not knowing that he already had it. I understood him, all right. I'd retired from violence once myself, right after the war. I'd been a respectable, reasonably prosperous citizen, with a nice home and family, only something had happened and it hadn't worked out. Something was happening to him, or he wouldn't be carrying the gun again.

Oh, it would be the same gun, the one from his old, bold, smoky days. He would have kept it, we all do, telling ourselves it's just a memento now, a souvenir of a life we've left behind, an old retainer pensioned after years of faithful service. I'd had a gun in a locked drawer for close to fifteen years after the war; then one day I'd had to take it out again. I'd used it and lost it, and now I had a soulless, new, issue-.38 in my boot, and one day, no doubt, I'd try putting that away in a drawer with all the memories that would have attached themselves to it by that time-but I'd still put it away loaded and ready.

He would have put the key in the lock and opened the drawer and buckled on the leather gear and slipped the gun into place, doing it reluctantly, for some compelling reason I still didn't know about-but he might just possibly have felt the cold breath of an old excitement touch him lightly in the moment he held the weapon in his hand. I had. Of course, he was older. Maybe he had forgotten. Some men did, or said they did.