“I’ll take it!� he snapped. “That completes my purchases. Now, let me see the bag.�
The bag proved all that the salesman claimed for it. Fay fondled each instrument, laid them in position, and turned the key in a little nickle-plated lock.
He paid his score and was out in the street, pressing his way like a doctor on a hurried call. He caught his reflection in a window. It was of a British surgeon, in
cap and long tweed coat, carrying the little insignia of the office. He expected momentarily to be grasped by the arm and led to a street accident.
The matter of the instruments had been carefully thought out. There remained a second purchase equally as important. Fay was doubtful of the propriety of purchasing a heavy-caliber revolver in the open shops.
He turned into Cheapside and sauntered along. An ancient armorer’s sign caught his darting glance. He crossed the pavement and stared into the window. A half-circle of British regulation revolvers lay in the center of other hardware. Also, there was a blue-steel American automatic with a business-like muzzle.
Fay smiled at this as if greeting an old friend. Mike the Bike and Big Scar, of western memory, always carried a .44 automatic. They called them “maggy-guns� or “smoke wagons.�
He went inside the shop and explained to the proprietor that he was en route to Mesopotamia. “I’ll take that American revolver,� he said. “That, and one hundred cartridges. Never can tell what the Turks are apt to do.�
Emerging from the armorer’s, with the automatic clinking against the tools in the bag, he glanced at the time. It was three o’clock. Fog was drifting across the dome of St. Paul’s. He had five hours before meeting MacKeenon!
Swirled now with the first grip of the game, he decided to visit one or two of his old haunts. No one would be likely to know him in the guise of a British surgeon.