The servant retired, and Mr. Quorn filled in the time of waiting by walking about the room with his hands under his coat-tails, making a cursory inspection of the furniture and the engravings on the walls, and walking from time to time to the fireplace to expectorate. When Violet entered, the count placed a seat for her, but she remained standing, with an interrogative look from Mr. Quorn to me which seemed to ask an explanation of that gentleman's presence. “My dear,” said the count, “we have often spoken together of the necessity for the purchase of arms for The Cause.” “Yes,” she said. “This gentleman,” the count indicated our visitor, “has arms to sell. We have had news this morning which makes it necessary that we should move at once.” Her face turned pale for a moment and her lips trembled, but she spoke an affirmatory word only, and waited. “Mr. Quorn,” said the count, “has fifty thousand stand of arms to dispose of.” “I suppose this is all right,” interrupted Mr. Quorn, “but I may be allowed to say that I have been in a business of this sort more than once in my time, and I never knew any good come out of the introduction of a petticoat.” Violet looked at him, and I saw her lips twitch with an impulse towards laughter; but Mr. Quorn obviously misunderstood the emotions he had inspired. “Do not suppose from that, madame,” he said, with great solemnity, “that I have not the reverence for your sex which rules every well-regulated masculine boozom, but this, if it means anything at all, means secrecy, and that is not your sex's strong point.” “That is a matter, Mr. Quorn,” returned the count, “with which, as I think, you need not concern yourself.” “That's all right,” returned Mr. Quorn. “I merely mentioned it. It's no affair of mine.” “Mr. Quorn,” said the count, “has fifty thousand stand of arms to sell. With them he has three million percussion-caps and three million cartridges. His price for the whole is--” he paused there and waited, looking towards the visitor. “Forty thousand pounds sterling,” said Mr. Quorn. I interrupted the conversation at this point, asking when the cartridges in question had been made. That was more than Mr. Quorn could say; but I insisted upon an examination of their quality before any bargain with respect to their purchase could be begun. No sportsman shoots with last year's cartridges, and a man whose life depends upon his ammunition should be at least as careful as a sportsman. “Now,” said Mr. Quorn, “I like this--this is business. This comes of talking to an expert.” But all the same I could see that he was not over-pleased by my interference at this point. “We will leave that to your judgment, my dear Fyffe,” said the count. “But in the meantime Mr. Quorn desires to be satisfied of our ability to purchase. You have consulted your lawyer, dear, and you know at what time you will have control of your money--”