He made no reply to this, but bent over the guineas, fingering them, holding them up to the candlelight, testing their edges with his thumbnail, and finally poising them one by one on the tip of his forefinger.
"I have a pair of scales," suggested I.
"Thank you, I too have a pair in my pocket. But I do not need them. The guineas are good weight, all but this one, which is possibly a couple of grains short."
"Surely you cannot rely on your hand to tell you that?"
His eyebrows went up as he felt in his pocket and produced a small velvet-lined case containing a pair of scales. He was a decidedly handsome young man, with dark intelligent eyes and a slightly scornful— or shall I say ironical?—smile. I took particular note of the steadiness of his hand as he adjusted the scales and weighed my guinea.
"To be precise," he announced, "1.898, or practically one and nine-tenths short."
"I should have thought," said I, fairly astounded, "a lifetime too little for acquiring such delicacy of sense!"
He seemed to ponder. "I dare say you are right, sir," he answered, and was silent again until the business of payment was concluded. While folding the receipt he added, "I am a connoisseur of coins, sir, and not of their weight alone."
"Antique, as well as modern?"
"Certainly."